


Eight Weeks

by Maracuya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Cats, Feelings, Fluff, Healing, Heartache, Introspection, Male Friendship, Memories, Monks, Quiet Isle, Some Humor, Swearing, Touching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 27,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2835944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor thinks himself to be at a low point when he awakes on the Quiet Isle. He's bedridden, he has lost everything and - FUCK! - he's surrounded by monks. Well, he has to learn that the Elder Brother has got even more in store for him, and before Sandor can think twice, he's turned into... a male mommy. And his little babies are tiny, furry and in dire need of his gentle care. One may ponder whether it isn't actually good they're deaf at the beginning. ;-)</p><p>(There's a reference to Ramsay B. at some point, that's the reason for the warnings above.)<br/>The story leans heavily on book canon and would be considered a TV AU. SPOILERS if you haven't read the books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prélude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oloi5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oloi5/gifts).



> Some of my stories have been stolen from me and have been posted on another homepage without my consent. I hereby declare that so far, the stories haven’t been taken down from that homepage despite my explicit wish to delete them. Any profit that person is making has got nothing to do with me and is being acquired against my will. I hereby condemn this kind of behavior. It is effectively blocking my creativity. Do not visit such a website, please. At this point, I’ve got no intention to take down my stories here, so going there has got no point.
> 
> This story is being betead by Oloi5. I cannot praise her thorough work and her overall support enough. It was also her who provided the lovely prompt. Thank you so much! :-)  
> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I  
> ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.

“Go bugger yourself with an iron poker, monk! And take this crap with you!”

Klabonk!

The Elder Brother could hear bowls and plates strike the door and fall clattering to the floor. No dinner and no medicine for Sandor Clegane then. A difficult patient, this man. Yet another lost soul like so many others who had found their way to the Quiet Isle.

 

With a loud creak, the cell door and Brother Narbert hurried out, his face pale with a wild mix of anger, embarrassment and shock. Inside, Sandor Clegane was nursing a fit of raving madness, and something that sounded like a chair crashed into the wall as well.

“This giant man isn't an ordeal from the Seven – he's a punishment from the hells!” the brother complained. “These four days since he has woken from his fever have been the longest ones in my life. I wonder what he'd be doing to us if he could walk and didn't have this ugly wound. I'm sure this huge madman would split us all in half with his sword.”

 

The Elder Brother smiled at Narbert, who wasn't a simple monk, but a proctor on the Quiet Isle, and who was allowed to speak every seven days – in contrast to the average penitents, who had sworn a vow of complete silence.

“Dearest brother, I can understand your wrath, but give it a second thought. It's said that the fire demons from the Seven Hells are eager to corrupt the good ones, because it's the most difficult goal to achieve and thus their greatest triumph. Wouldn't you say it's only fair if it's equally demanding for us to bring back a sinner to the side of love and goodness?”

Brother Narbert wrinkled his brow.

“If you ask me, that fellow in there is lost forever – perhaps because he has never known either love or goodness. What upsets me even more is that his heretic horse is as bad as his master. Renaming it “Driftwood” wasn't anywhere near enough. Brother Gillam won't come near it again after what it has done to him. And on my way from the kitchen I heard that the horse's hooves have killed a cat who had just given birth to a few kittens in the stables. The poor little ones are doomed now.”

 

The Elder Brother listened to Narbert with his eyes closed and his chin sunk onto his chest. After he had processed the information, he looked up again, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.

He said: “Brother Narbert, you're a wise man. However, the “doomed” character in this episode is Sandor Clegane, rather than the kittens, I'd say.”

The proctor couldn't understand the other one's facial expression, but his chest swelled at the words, and he stood straighter.

“What are we to do with the warrior then?” he asked.

The Elder Brother chuckled and answered: “Let that be my worry.”

Brother Narbert gazed at him with narrowed eyes, but didn't ask any more.

Instead, he grumbled: “All right then. If you don't mind I'll have a look at the beehives now.”

The Elder Brother inclined is head and gave his assent.

 

**##**##**##**

He was dead and down in the seven hells. And unfair as the demons were, they had created the worst possible scenario for Sandor to torture him: incredible pain, a severe wound on his leg so he couldn't even get up and take a shit alone, being confined to a bed in a tiny cell; and to top it all... monks. Monks! Everywhere around him, like a swarm of flies. He was in a cloister of the Faith. FUCK.

The blasted buggers in brown were pretending to heal him – and trying to turn him into a toothless sheep in the process. Bah, they'd have to wait for St. Never's Day before he'd turn a pious dodderer. One of them was worse than the others. Always muttering a prayer or another, if they were allowed to speak at all. Worse: they were likely expecting his gratefulness.

The worst of the bunch was a hypocritical shit who looked like a former warrior and behaved like a do-gooder. Disgusting. There was nothing more pathetic than a converted killer. The bastard styled himself as “Elder Brother” and had told Sandor of how he had found him under a tree near the Trident, feverish and half dead. If only the Stranger had done his job properly...

 

He looked at the blotches on the wall where the tray with the food had hit it. His fingers clawed into the mattress, and he groaned.

“I shouldn't have thrown the medicine away as well,” he growled. “Perhaps it was really poisonous. Could have relieved me from this horror then.”

Sandor considered refusing his food from now on each time. He'd starve and – ill as he already was – and it wouldn't take him long. He only wished he could have had a quick death on the battlefield.

“Why did that bratty northern wolf bitch not kill me? She knows where the heart is. Oh, well, that was her revenge. She wanted to let me suffer. Bloody effective method, judging by where it's got me,” he thought and wanted to throw something else – or better to kill someone.

 

The door moved.

Not caring who was about to enter Sandor snarled: “Don't you dare enter, you fossilized dumbass, or I'll strangle you to death!”

The visitor was unperturbed, and Sandor swore even louder. The elder brother entered with a big smile on his face and a basket in front of his chest.

The monk was sporting one of his nerve-racking smiles and asked: “I take it you know your letters?”

“I won't become one of your hunchbacked scribes,” Sandor rasped. “Take that ink and whatnot back with you again. Or no, leave it here so I can throw the pot at the next bastard who shows as much as the tip of his nose.”

 

The Elder Brother shook his head.

“You won't have to write. Here, that's your duty now. Read the tutorial. The first and easiest rule: Keep them warm.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” Sandor asked, flustered.

The Elder Brother simply put the basket onto the bed with a careful movement. It was followed by a little book the monk produced from a bag in his robe.

Sandor arched his good eyebrow and found it all very mysterious.

The next comment he got wasn't suited to enlighten him any further: “Don't forget: you're their mother now. The goat's milk and the pipette will be brought in a moment.”

Sandor exploded: “You're talking in riddles, monk. Explain yourself and sod off!”

“My explanations are in the tutorial. I wrote it myself.”

Again, the Elder Brother smiled at Sandor, nodded as if that would explain anything... then turned and left.

 

**##**##**##**

“Hey, you daft, grinning bastard, come back and take that blasted basket back with you! I shit on your plans, whatever they may be!”

The monk didn't didn't return. Sandor seized the basket, intending to fling it against the wall, just the way he had done it with his food, his medicine and his chair...

… only his eyes fell on what was inside the wickerwork container.

He stopped dead.

His eyes widened.

Fuck, what...!?

 

There were seven tiny buns in different colours in the basket. And they were furry, though only a little.

Why – these were kittens! Tiny little babies, only two or three days old, by the looks of them. Blind, deaf, ears so small they were barely visible, rosy skin shining through the scanty fur, and fast asleep.

Sandor couldn't believe what he was seeing. And what had the Elder Brother said to him?

“Don't forget: you're their mother now.”

No. No, for fuck's sake. Sandor broke into a cold sweat... and this time, it had nothing to do with a fever from his wound.

He was a warrior, a seasoned killer. A crippled killer now. He knew shit about handling kittens. And he had served Lannisters for far too many years, so he'd never serve a lion again – and even less so a feline mini version. What was more: in the past, his duty had been to take lives, not to preserve them.

 

“ELDER BROTHER! Move your wrinkled arse in here and take these little fuzzballs away! At once! Or shall I throw them against the wall one by one? I give you ten seconds!”

No reaction.

The gods-forsaken man knew Sandor couldn't even sit up alone from sheer pain.

Damn.

Exasperated, Sandor grabbed the little book the Elder Brother had given him.

He had a look at the title, which had been set down neat, elegant letters. Neat handwriting – that was something Sandor with his big, rough paws could never accomplish (nor was this something he wanted). As a boy he'd learned to produce something with ink and quill, but it had always resembled chicken scratches. Well, it was enough for him and would always be.

 

Sandor read: “Fostering kittens. Guidelines and advice for the first eight weeks. Answers to the most pressing questions you cannot ask while under a vow of silence.”

Shit. The accursed grinning monk had done this to other men before. Only this time, the victim wasn't a silent, docile, penitent man. He, Sandor, had only received the manual, because nobody wanted to talk to him.

He read the first rule and grimaced.

Those were the same words the Elder Brother had already mentioned: “Keep the kittens warm.”

But there was an addition: “They cannot regulate their temperature – so they need body warmth for maintaining body warmth.”

 

Sandor swore again, and perhaps it was good that the little ones were still deaf. How could he even touch the tiny kittens without crushing them with his thick fingers? He looked at the helpless, sleeping little buns. His gaze wandered to his own huge, scarred, ugly, naked body under the blanket. Since it facilitated his medical treatment he had been stripped, or so this stupid Narbert had bleated earlier on.

Sandor took another peek at the animals.

“I should really throw you against the wall – to give you a quick death. Would be a mercy in comparison to my attempts to keep you alive,” he growled.

 

When silent Brother Corrym, a haggard man with jug ears, entered the cell an hour later with some equipment, seven fuzzy buns were lying on Sandor's broad chest – and the warrior's mood was at a new low point: the first kitten had already shat on him.

 


	2. 1.1

**1st week**

Sandor had growled at Brother Corrym, had threatened him with what he'd do to him once he'd be better and able to get up again. Yet, the monk had just retrieved the chair that had been thrown across the room and had put various items on it so Sandor could reach them. Then, Corrym fled.

 

And there he was now: the Hound, one of the most fearsome warriors in Westeros – and as helpless as the seven sparks of life on his chest. Lying around was making him so impatient he wanted to fling the chair across the cell again, but the relief would have been all too fleeting, he knew.

 

Muttering curses under his breath he looked at the things he had been brought. A bowl with water and a piece of cloth for washing were the first things he noticed, and with quick movements he cleaned up the mess the kitten had caused on his chest. Next, he spotted a small jug with lukewarm goat's milk and a pipette; it was obvious that this was meant for feeding the cats. There was also a soft fleece. It could be used as a pad for the little ones.

  
_“That will be softer than lying on my coarse chest hair. And I won't get pissed and shat upon anymore,”_ Sandor thought.

  
One of two grey-and-white kittens uttered a tiny squeak as if it wanted to agree. Sandor looked at it.

  
_“Stark colours. Wonder if you'll survive. The northerners are dying like the flies at the moment, you know?”_

  
Now, one of two red-furred animals made a peep.

  
“Chirping like the Little Bird, you are, do you know that? Getting hungry?” he murmured to himself.

  
There were more begging sounds from the three remaining kittens. They had yellow fur.

  
“Why am I not surprised the golden faction is the loudest and most demanding part in the litter? But don't imagine I'll give you names. Understood?”

  
“Eeeep.”

  
“And I thought you deaf, but it looks like you can already answer. Let's see what we can do for you then.”

 

Sandor grabbed the volume with the rules for kitten fostering again and tried to find the rules for feeding them – and when he did he would have doubled over, had he not already been lying down.

  
He read: “During their first weeks kittens must be fed every two hours all around the clock.”

 

_“Fuck, what!? Is the Elder Brother japing? Every two hours? And when am I supposed to sleep and to recover from my wound? Bloody bugger!”_

 

The next lines in the book did nothing to lift him up again: “The kittens must have all four paws on the ground while you are feeding them. Their reflexes for swallowing are not fully developed yet, so never turn them on their backs at this stage of the feeding process, because they would choke in that case. Try to offer the kittens the goat's milk with a pipette, try to lure it into eating, but don't use any force. Once they have eaten the kittens will show you when they have had enough. Respect that. Pat them lightly with a finger so they can make a burp. Next, lift their backsides up a little and rub their tummies and the anal region with light movements and a piece of cloth. It is an imitation of the licking of a cat mother, meant to stimulate their digestion.”

 

Sandor was horrified at the prospect.

  
_“Seven hells, I'll wallow in kitten shit and piss within the week!”_

 

With a keen eye he identified the biggest cat in the litter to test the feeding procedure. As Fate would have it, it was a grey-and-white specimen.

  
“You, Stark!” he growled in a low voice. “You're quite handy with your size. You and me, we'll have a little sparring session now. Be prepared – I've never done this before. I've only ever seen my grandfather handle some pups, but those were bigger, and I don't remember so very much, because I was a toddler. So don't hold against me what I'm trying to do now.”

  
As carefully as possible, Sandor pushed the cat a little forwards, dunked the pipette into the goat's milk and then held it to the kitten's muzzle. The little one only got a face smeared white with a droplet of milk, but it didn't drink. Fuck, he should have known.

  
“Is the Lord Stark to good to be fostered by a lowly Hound? In that case, we'll try someone else.”

 

Sandor singled out the next kitten. This time, it was the weakest one. It had yellow fur.

  
“All right, little grumkin. Are you hungry?”

  
It turned out that the kitten was. The first happy smacking sound caused Sandor to grin like a fool.

  
_“Ha! Look who's a survivor. Wanna have some more? Bloody glutton! All right. Let's wipe your arse then. Shit, what a tiny thing you are. The pad of my index finger nearly is as big as your belly.”_

  
The kitten burped, uttered a little squeak – and started to purr.

  
Sandor's good eyebrow rose.

  
“Whoa, someone's content there. What a surprise. The bigwig Lannister Lions have never been really grateful for my service. Perhaps because I wasn't a bumlicker around them. The irony of it that I'm one now, even if it's only with a piece of cloth. And what's that? Already asleep again? My, you're faster than the Imp when he's drunk. Good for you. – And now off to the next. Ouch!”

 

Small as they were, there were already some rudimentary claws, and the second yellow fuzzball had reminded him of that when he had pushed her lightly to the front.

  
“So you're the little witch here in the litter. Ah, well, your claws are nothing in comparison to the inferno down there on my leg. But you've got no clue about my pain, have you? So let's see if you like my goat's milk.”

  
It took the kitten a moment to grasp the concept of the artificial teat, but then it suckled on the pipette as if there was no tomorrow. Ah, perhaps there wasn't – who knew?

 

Sandor's stomach rumbled. He looked at the food he had tossed across the room. Damn, how he hated all of this. Couldn't he simply go meet the Stranger? Or recover so quickly he could meet his own Stranger in the stables? But then again: life had never been fair and he didn't suspect there would be any exceptions from the rule now.

 

It took him nearly an hour to feed and to clean all seven little buns, but in the end, even grey-white Handy Stark had swallowed a little milk. The litter was fast asleep, and Sandor transferred them onto the fleece and into their basket.

 

Time to think of himself now.

  
“Monks!” he roared. “Someone's ready to take a shit and a piss in here. If you like your cot – help me up!”

  
Seven hells, how he hated it to be so dependent! Was he turning from Hound into giant kitten now himself? The way his leg felt at the moment, he couldn't even stand, let alone reach the privy.

  
Two or three minutes later, Brother Corrym arrived with a bedpan, and Sandor hated life even more.


	3. 1.2

It was horrible to be so restricted. Sandor fought to keep what little dignity he still possessed and tried to wash himself. He was accustomed to being grimy during a military campaign, but right then and there he would have appreciated a bath – which was impossible, of course. The first movements with the wet cloth posed no problem, because he applied it to his arms and his chest. As soon as he wanted to get access to his backside, however, or to the lower regions of his body his wound tortured him so much that he had to groan in pain and to give up the project rather sooner than later. Brother Corrym, who had been waiting at his side, took over then.

 

Sandor rasped at him: “Fuck! Getting washed like a baby. As if I were a kitten. Make me at least drunk first. Give me wine! And don't you dare touch my cock! I'm not like the bloody Knight of Flowers, understood? One wrong movement, and I'll use the leg of the chair as a club, best believe that.”

The monk drew in his head like a turtle, but continued the cleaning process.

 

Meanwhile, the kittens had been put into the basket, alongside with the fleece, and the basket was on Sandor's other side under the blanket.

The washing took far too long for the warrior's taste. When he was finally alone again he placed the fleece and the sleeping kittens on top of his chest again. Sandor suspected that being awake wouldn't be overly interesting for them anyway, blind and deaf as they were.

 

What the fuzzballs were capable of, however, was to indicate hunger. It all started again when one of the two red buns uttered a tiny squeak, followed by a sibling of the same colour.

Sandor screwed up his eyes.

“Chirping like the little bird, you are. I guess I'll have to call you “Damsel” then. Just as helpless, you are. Hope you'll grow into a strong one. And you?” Sandor muttered and turned around the second red-furred kitten as carefully as he could with his huge, rough paws.

“A male, if I'm not mistaken and the little stump down there is a rest of your umbilical cord. All right, so you'll be Marby, what with your rusty hair. But don't expect me to call you “Ser” Marby, because knights are bastards and I hope you're none. And now, let's get some milk into you.”

 

Fortunately, Damsel and Marby drank their milk greedily, though Sandor felt still clumsy with the pipette. Handy Stark turned out to be picky again and didn't really want to drink.

“Fuck me sideways,” Sandor grumbled under his breath.

“As much of a survival instinct as late Eddard. But just you wait. Hunger is a good teacher, and you'll think the pipette is your mother's teat soon enough. Hm... let's have a look at your grey sibling then. Well, since you're Handy Stark, this must be Proud River, like proud Lady Catelyn from Riverrun,” he thought.

The kitten in question was a bit suspicious of the offered food, but accepted it after a moment. Next in line came the golden-furred brood. Little Grumkin had already woken up and was begging for food.

“The smallest one, but such a glutton yet,” Sandor said.

The last two ones in the litter were dubbed Witch and Taunty. They both sucked greedily on the pipette. Sandor grinned.

“Look at the little hogs!” he couldn't help but think.

 

After the feeding round came the even trickier part: the rubbing of the bellies and the anal region. Sandor's mouth distorted until it was twitching.

“Fuck, I'm the most bizarre wetnurse in all of Westeros. People must never know about this, or they'll never take me seriously again.”

 

A strange, springy movement caught Sandor's eye.

He needed only a heartbeat to understand what he had just discovered – and it caused him to swear: “Seven bleeding hells! How old are you? Two days? Three? How is it possible you've already got fleas!?”


	4. 1.3

“You're a buggering devil,” Sandor declared with red-rimmed eyes when the Elder Brother entered his cell the next morning.

The kittens had kept the warrior awake all night; just as the warrior would start to nod off, they'd start demanding food again. Handy Stark had remained a problem and had refused to drink, until Sandor had forced down the milk dropwise every half an hour.

 

“I'm saving lives. Yours and theirs. And you're alleviating your horse's mistake,” the Elder Brother said and looked at the seven sleeping fuzzballs on Sandor's chest.

“What about Stranger?” Sandor asked, alarmed.

The monk shrugged.

“Trampled mother cat. If not for your stallion you wouldn't have ended up replacing her.”

Sandor cursed and vowed to turn his horse into hash.

 

The Elder Brother unwound the bandage around Sandor's bad leg. Due to the kittens even the tiniest attempt to sit up was impossible. All the warrior could do was to groan in pain.

“How's the wound, monk?” Sandor asked.

“I've got to clean it, but it isn't festering any more, thank the heavens. Your pus could have filled a tankard when you arrived here, so much was it.”

They were quiet for a moment, and the Elder Brother worked on in concentration.

Then, Sandor swallowed and forced himself to ask: “If I survive – will I be able to walk again? I don't want to end up a bed-ridden cripple. In that case, I'd rather die.”

“Your recovery will depend on your cooperation. You'll have to abide and to follow my orders. It's not necessary to like them, but I know my business like you do yours. It's likely that you'll retain a limp, but your actual mobility will depend a lot on whether you'll accept my treatment or not.”

Sandor grunted and looked up at the ceiling.

 

“Talking about business – the cats... they've got fleas and Handy doesn't want to drink.”

“Handy?”

Was the blasted monk grinning to himself?

“Seven hells, the grey kitten. This one. Tried to feed it all the time. Tiny portions. Stubborn little shit.”

“That's the right way and basically all you can do for him. Just don't apply... too much force.”

 

Sandor's ire sparked off at once.

“I know that myself, thanks a lot. And can you tell me how to bloody do that with my strength, my massive body, my big, rough hands? Hmm? Apart from that – what about the fleas now? I can't shear the little ones, can I? What then? Bathe them in alum? Can't imagine that that would be a proper treatment for a kitten.”

The Elder Brother tipped with his finger against his veined nose, deep in thought.

“I've got some herbal oil that might drive away the vermin. We can give it a try. It's just a little smelly. Oh, and one more thing: if all goes well you can try to sit up with Brother Corrym's help for the first time tomorrow. But don't do it alone.”

Sandor grumbled under his breath and watched the Elder Brother wrap a new bandage around his leg.

“One last thing, monk – what about sleeping? I've got to feed the kittens and to rub their bellies all the time. Shouldn't I get some rest at some point?”

The Elder Brother thought about this for a moment.

“Brother Sunsen will come to you in the evening for the kitten vigil. He can never sleep at night. See, you're not the only one with scars on his soul.”

 

Sandor didn't understand exactly what the Elder Brother's last statement meant, but he classified it as religious waffling, and it made him irritable.

“Pfft, what do I care about souls? Mine – if I have one left at all – is dark and perverted and ready for the seven hells anyway. But I bet I'm the only one around with such scars on the face.”

The Elder Brother looked at him with a sad smile, but Sandor didn't have a clue what it was about; so he chose to ignore it.

“See you tomorrow then, Sandor.”

The warrior harrumphed. It was all the answer he was willing to give.

He rolled his eyes when his grumpy vibes were sabotaged by ever-hungry Grumkin's heartwrenching squeak for food.


	5. 1.4

The herbal oil that Brother Corrym brought him for the treatment of the kittens' fleas smelled like something rotting. He should have expected that, Sandor guessed.

With a low growl he asked the monk: “I know that the ears and eyes of the little ones are still closed – but what about their noses? Would be a trauma to first smell your mommy's sweet teats, then an ugly cur and then... THIS.”

The other man shrugged, indicating that he didn't know any details about kittens.

 

Sandor carried on with the tasks: filling the pipette with milk, feeding his furry wards, rubbing their bellies (and further down) and waiting for their burps. Witch proved to be active, in comparison to the other yellow kittens, and Sandor could sometimes even feel the tiny claws through the fleece when she was treading him with her paws. At least her kitten weapons weren't as dangerous yet as they would be in the future.

Around lunchtime, Brother Corrym arrived with various items: medicine for Sandor, some food for him, a jug with fresh milk... and a new fleece. Most of all, the last was highly welcome, given their droppings. Cat piss smelled no sweeter, just because it was produced by a baby version.

 

Bearing the Elder Brother's words in mind, Sandor ate his lunch and swallowed his medicine, though he would have preferred to hurl it against the wall again – so boring was it to be lying in bed all the time. He even went as far as to ask Brother Corrym for a book to read.

“But not the Seven-pointed Star, or any romantic knight stories,” he emphasized.

The little bird had read romances and had believed in honourable knights – until those knights had stripped and beaten her in court, for everyone to see... and he had only stood by.

_“Oh, little bird, where are you now? What is this accursed Imp doing to you in the marriage bed? In what way are the other Lannisters tormenting you now? Are you already with child?”_

 

Cursing, Sandor forced himself to stop thinking of Sansa Stark, and he focused on the pain in his leg instead. At that moment, he even welcomed his wound, because it helped eclipse what he was feeling in his heart. After a while, the medicine started to work its magic, and the pain subsided.

That was the moment when Sandor busied himself with another round of cat-feeding. Handy Stark was starting to worry him: the kitten had been the biggest one at first, but now, he was starting to shrink in comparison to the others, because he still only ever drank a few drops of milk, and he was also rather lethargic. Handy showed no enthusiasm whatsoever for the food. In contrast to this, Damsel was chirping a lot and was always grateful for the pipette, just like the others.

Though Sandor knew that in a litter with seven chances were high that one animal – or more – wouldn't survive he started to see it as a personal challenge to not let the Stranger have his due.  
“Ned Stark wasn't a survivor, but YOU are better than him, understood?” he murmured.

Just at that moment, rusty-furred Marby called for his milk ration.

“I wasn't talking to you, but since you're insisting... come here,” Sandor said and picked up the little one to bring him into the right feeding position.

It was still difficult for him to do it right, because the kittens more or less disappeared in his own big paws. He was in a constant fear of crushing them. Yet, everything went well, and he managed to make the animal drink what was on offer. Afterwards, he turned Marby around to rub his belly.

 

There was a tiny sound... and a foul stench reached Sandor's nose.

_“Seven hells, Marby is only a few days old, but he can already fart like grandfather's old dachshund! What was his name again? Ah, yes, Fydel. He could also sleep in grandfather's bed like these ones here. Ha, I still remember when I once woke up next to...”_

 

Sandor stared at the kitten.

Whoa. What was that? He hadn't thought of his grandfather's beloved dog for such a long time! Well, he had tried to forget his family most of the time anyway because of all the horrors he had experienced in his childhood, so it was hardly a surprise that his mind hadn't wandered further on to Fydel in ages.

 

Sandor put down Marby and wiped his eyes. Shit, the medicine was doing things to him and was making him soft in the head!

“Monks! I need something to drink. Bring me wine. Or beer. Hey, where are you?”

No reaction.

Sandor punched his fist against the wall, but then had to stop, because the kittens threatened to fall off his chest. He resorted to wild cursing then... until his anger had burned out itself and the medicine started to work even better. Finally, he fell asleep for a short while.

He was woken again by the mewls of six hungry little muzzles.


	6. 1.5

In the evening, Sandor felt drained though he had done nothing but lying around and feeding cats. That made him irritable again. Fuck, in the past, people had compared him to the Stranger, because he had been so fierce and indefatigable in his duties – and now he more resembled the Crone.

  
_“Like a worn-out hag,”_ he cursed himself.

 

Finally, the door to his cell opened and a monk he had never seen before entered. He was short and lank, his hair and beard a dull brown.

  
_“Why are his eyes moving in such a weird way? Looks as if he were trembling with them, rather than with his body,”_ Sandor thought.

  
Aloud, he asked: “Brother Sunsen?”

  
A quick, choppy nod. The monk handed him a piece of bread and an egg, as well as... a book! Sandor would have never thought he could be so thrilled by something to read. He looked at the title: “Ðe Herbal Lore of ðe Sevene Kyngdoms.” Oh. Well. Not very exciting, but better than the Seven-pointed Star or Sansa Stark's romantic songbooks. Sansa Lannister. It was Sansa Lannister now. Fuck, he shouldn't have let his mind wander!

  
Sandor snarled at the monk: “Whoa, the shittiest kind of entertainment ever. Why can't you buggers have a collection of tavern songs? And what about warfare? Or at least history, if nothing else? History is warfare after all most of the time.”

 

It was nothing new that people would flinch on hearing Sandor's voice – especially his swearing – but Brother Sunsen's reaction went far beyond that: he threw himself onto the ground, curled up into a ball, held his arms over his head, whimpered and started to knock his head onto the floor again and again. All the while, he was whimpering in a voice that sounded more miserable than any dog that had ever lived in a Clegane kennel.

  
Sandor stared at the man, jaws hanging. What the...?

  
Then, he remembered the Elder Brother's words: “You're not the only one with scars on his soul.”

 

The next moment, Sandor recollected Ellory, an elder servant at Clegane Keep. The man had looked and behaved the same way, back on that horrible day when Sandor had been eleven, and he had been forced to witness Gregor deal with the domestic... and had had to watch the rape of his daughter. It had been the first rape Sandor had ever seen... though not the last. War was brutal.

 

At least he himself had never committed this particular crime, blackened as his soul was in all other ways. But he had come close once. Too close. Had been sorely tempted after the Battle of the Blackwater. And yet... he, the mangy dog, had left the little bird with only a few ruffled feathers, not more. He had abandoned her. Had left them for the Imp, who wasn't any better.

  
_“Fuck, stop thinking of her, Hound!”_

 

So he controlled his voice and tried to calm down the monk.

  
“Brother Sunsen, don't take it personally. I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself. I won't do anything to you. Would be impossible anyway, bedridden as I am. Look! Look here! You've come for the kittens, haven't you? Here they are. Look at the little fuzzballs. Aren't they sweet?”

 

It took the monk a few minutes to calm down and to regain his composure to a degree that allowed him to stand up and to inch closer to Sandor's bed. His eyes were darting back and forth, back and forth. They only started to focus when he saw the kittens. A tiny smile crept onto his features.

  
Unbidden, Sandor asked himself whether he looked the same when he heard sated Damsel and her siblings burp.

 

“The Elder Brother said you'd be taking the kittens for the night. Do you know how to handle them?”

  
Choppy nodding once again.

  
“All right, let's put the litter into the basket.”

 

When Brother Sunsen had left with the little ones Sandor felt odd. Somehow... lonely. He was dog tired, yet he couldn't sleep; so he ate the dinner he had been brought.

  
_“I hope he's doing it right. I mean – he knows he must feed Handy Stark every half an hour to get enough drops of milk into him. I'll beat the monk to a pulp, if he doesn't treat the babies right.”_

 

Sandor blushed. “The babies.” He was getting soft. Seven hells.

  
_“I need to think of what I'll do when I've recovered. Let Stranger loose and sick him on the monks. Burn this blasted cloister. Kill Gregor. Kill the Imp. The little bird will be happier as a widow...”_

  
Sandor elaborated on these fantasies some more – and while doing so he drifted into sleep.


	7. 1.6

The next morning, Brother Corrym brought back the basket with the kittens, and Sandor – who was feeling refreshed – called himself a ridiculous oaf for feeling such relief at the sight of the breathing little fuzzballs. The monk wrinkled his nose and pointed at Handy Stark.

“Did he drink anything at all?” Sandor asked.

Brother Corrym made a gesture that indicated “a little” or “not much”.

“Fuck.”

 

As soon as Sandor had been left alone he set to work with kittens again. He was still waiting for his breakfast and a jug with fresh goat's milk, but he inspected each animal and rubbed seven little fluffy bellies with his finger.

While doing so, he noticed that Proud River was moving her butt and tightening her rear muscles as if she wanted to shit, but nothing happened.

“Whoops, what's that? Doesn't look normal. You're not getting any problems, are you?”

 

To make things worse, Taunty's eyes didn't look quite normal: they were not only closed, like it could be expected, they were also a bit swollen.

“Fuck, I need to talk to the Elder Brother,” Sandor grumbled.

 

When an pockmarked porter with a jagged scar under his right eye entered the cell and served him his breakfast and fresh milk Sandor made his request. The other man showed he had understood and left again.

 

After that, Sandor's patience was sorely tested, for it took two hours until the Elder Brother arrived.

“Bleeding hells, you certainly haven't been in a hurry,” Sandor reproached him.

The Elder Brother was unperturbed by the comment and gave neither excuse nor explanation.

“Let me look at your wound,” he said instead and wrapped off the bandage. “Hmmm... not bad, not bad. Good news. Brother Corrym can help you sit up today for the first time.”

Sandor's heart beat faster.

“Finally!” he ground out in the grumpiest possible way. “But I've also got some questions about the kittens and you're the only bugger around at the moment without a vow of silence.”

 

He told the Elder Brother of Taunty's and Proud River's problems.

The monk nodded.

“I see. The grey kitten is likely constipated. You must dilute the milk. You'll get some water for it in a moment. And the golden one... I'll give you a camomile lotion for the eyes. That should work well enough. All right, that's it then. See you tomorrow, Sandor.”

“Hmgrm. Until tomorrow.”

 

The Elder Brother left, and after a while Sandor was brought the water and the lotion. Moreover, Brother Corrym pointed at him and at the chamberpot.

“Your boss said I could sit up with your help for the first time today,” Sandor said.

The man nodded and grabbed Sandor's arms and torso in a tight hug to pull him upwards.

 

A minute later, Sandor was weeping from the intense pain in his leg as well as from the happiness about sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Seven hells, I'm happy about the most basic thing. This will be the best shit ever,” he hissed between clenched teeth.

The monk flinched from the curse and left Sandor so he could see to his physical needs alone.


	8. 1.7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves... Winter is coming.

The happiness of sitting up in bed dissipated bit by bit over the next hours. Sure, it had been a first step that indicated he'd heal, but in retrospect, his improvement looked... insignificant.

Sandor wondered if this had something to do with the development of the kittens. Taunty's eyes improved quickly with the help of the camomile lotion, and the little one's appetite remained healthy. The same couldn't be said, however, of Sandor's problem kitten. Handy Stark looked worse by the minute.

 

“Fuck, I know that there's nearly always a casualty in big litters, but you were the bloody strongest one at the beginning,” Sandor swore under his breath and tried to feed the grey animal one more drop of milk.  
Handy barely reacted, and Sandor's despair grew.

 _“Shit, he won't make it, if he doesn't change,”_ he realised.

Ever so gently, he stroked the kitten's fur, especially the belly. He even attempted to purr. Sure, the little ones couldn't hear it, but perhaps they could feel his chest resonate. But, then, he accidentally swallowed his own spit and coughed like mad.

 _“Fuck, a dog trying to sound like a pet lion. What a pathetic fraud!”_ he thought.

After some more minutes, Sandor tried to feed Handy another droplet – and the little one finally accepted it. It caused the big man to sigh in utter relief, and allowed him to turn to his other purring wards.

 

Grumkin was still the greediest of them all – and developing nicely. He was also the one who was the most awake, so as not to miss a single food ration. The golden fuzzball caused Sandor to grin from ear to ear, and he started to ask himself into which type of man Tyrion would have developed, had he not been born a dwarf... and had Joanna Lannister not died in the birthing process.

_“He's an arrogant bastard even without all these assets; damn, he might have turned out worse than Jaime and Tywin together. Who knows.”_

 

Then again... what would he himself been like, if Gregor had not burned his face? Sandor pressed his jaws together, and the burned corner of his mouth twitched. Well, it was clear – he'd have striven to become a blasted knight. If Gregor hadn't killed him at another opportunity, like he had done with their father and their sister.

Those memories hurt too much, and Sandor pushed them aside.

_“If I had become a knight I'd have probably married a girl from the gentry in the Westerlands. Wouldn't have been possible to find someone above my rank – not with our humble family history and my brother's bad reputation. And then with my own bad one. Wonder how much I'd have come to hate my knight's vows.”_

 

It was weird – Sandor had always been bitter about the fact that he had been denied so many things that were considered normal for others. Yet, he wondered whether those options would have made him a more contented person. He scratched his head.

_“I may have experienced many miserable episodes in the past... but I can't imagine I'd have been happier otherwise. I don't have the faintest clue what it would have been like: not to be around the golden Lannister bigwigs as a shield all the time. To lead a wedded life. Would have been an arranged marriage, likely. A woman at my side? Awkward concept. I'd still have been a grumpy fellow, and too heavy and too wild in the marriage bed to have been good for a woman. And I'd have never got to know the little...”_

His heart knotted, and his fists clenched.

 

“What-if-games are blasted shit,” he murmured.

Still, he couldn't fend off the memories that assaulted his mind. Recollections of fiery tresses, of blue eyes that could beam with happiness and shed so many tears. Sandor heard a voice chirp empty phrases like 'Thank you, ser.' to sound polite like a lady, to please others... and to save oneself. A song echoed in his head – the Hymn of the Mother. His eyes burned like they had done back on that accursed day when he had heard the notes, so he wiped his face angrily.

 

And here he was now, not even the Hound any more, but some sort of mother for a litter of orphaned kittens instead. Come to think of it, he was even more of a lonesome dog now, and he'd never find a partner. Unlike...

Sandor asked himself for the umpteenth time, if the little bird was already carrying the Imp's child. The concept of her having been wedded to and raped by the Lannister man, and the possible prospect of her losing her life in the same way Lord Tywin's wife had done tore at his core.

“Sansa,” he breathed, his voice even coarser than usual.

 

And then, he was sobbing and felt as helpless as he had done as a boy when he hadn't been able to save his sister's life. The crying fit was so bad that he didn't know how long it lasted – and it was a miracle that no kitten had fallen off of him until he started to get a grip on himself again. His limbs were trembling, his fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically, and his teeth were nearly cracking from being pressed together so heavily. It took Sandor what felt like ages to recover.

As it was, he had no tears left when he noticed that Handy Stark wasn't breathing anymore...


	9. 1.8

Well. He had taken care of the dead little grey kitten as best he was able. He had never raised a litter by hand before, so he couldn't be blamed for the death, could he? And anyway, nobody else would give a bloody shit about this little life light that had been snuffed out.

When Brother Sunsen entered two hours later with some food, Sandor spoke up.  
“That little fuzzball didn't make it and needs to be buried. Put me onto a stretcher. I can't bloody walk, but I'm not blind, and I want to see....,”he trailed off.  
Brother Sunsen cocked his head and looked at him.  
“Fuck, what is it!? Can’t a man insist on making sure – seven hells, get me the stretcher. At once!”

There it was again: the Hound's typical, deadly snarl. Like so often in the past, it had the desired effect. Brother Sunsen dashed out of the room with a terrified look on his face. A few minutes later, four monks entered the room with a stretcher, thus giving Sandor the feeling his word still held some authority.  
Ah, but there was also an unwanted consequence. Fate was a bugger, like always. The Elder Brother appeared, and his expression would have suited a demon from the seven hells better than a holy man.

“Sandor, how could you frighten Brother Sunsen like that? He's a good man and he's been through enough trouble himself. You know how sensitive he is.”  
Sandor tasted ashes as he snarled: “So? I've been through lots of shit, too.”  
The next moment, Sandor thought: _“Fuck, am I a spoiled little brat? The Elder Brother looks like a disappointed teacher. Like my bloody old maester at the keep when I was seven.”_

Under his breath, so as not to disturb the other brethren, the leader of the monks leaned closer and whispered harshly:  
“The Bastard of Bolton skinned Brother Sunsen's wife and his sister alive when the human monster was on a hunting spree on his lands. To make things worse, the Bastard forced the poor man to watch. After that, dogs tore the bodies apart. Next, Ramsay Bolton's men bound the local men to wooden poles and used them as targets for their crossbows. What's more, Brother Sunsen had a daughter. She was nine, and guess what the men did to her. The Bastard made Sunsen watch again, because our Brother was the last one alive after having been injured with a gib. And whenever Sunsen averted his eyes, the Bastard's men raped the girl, passing her around until she died. Just in case you were asking yourself why his eyes are always wandering. When I found him he was more dead than alive, not unlike you. And now you can come and talk about your own 'shit'.”

Well. There was nothing to say to this from Sandor's side, and the silence hung heavy between them.  
The Elder Brother sighed.  
“I shouldn't have told you his story. I didn't have the right to do so. Hopefully, he'll forgive me. It's just... you're making me angry with your stubborn ways, Sandor. You are an ordeal, if there has ever been one on this isle.”  
Sandor looked at the monk and said darkly: “You're trying to save someone who cannot be saved. I serve the Stranger. I can only make sure this dead little furry guy here is put to rest properly.”  
He pointed at Handy.

A sad smile crossed the Elder Brother's face.  
“That is the very proof you're not quite as lost as you may think. The Stranger's servant? Is that the way you see yourself? First a killer and now some sort of undertaker? Perhaps we should give you an according task once you're getting better. But we'll think about that later. And now – let's get this thing done.”

Sandor groaned in pain when he was put onto the stretcher, but he didn't refrain from what he considered to be his duty.  
Outside, a blood red sun was setting. Despite everything, Sandor's mood improved at once. He was out in the open again! After days locked up in a monk's cell he could breathe fresh air again and look at the horizon. Had he been a religious man he'd have thanked the Seven. Instead, he just grunted in relief.

Their little group moved towards the graveyard, and the other men were panting, because Sandor was so heavy. Three open graves had been prepared for a burial, and the bodies had already been put into them, so that they only needed to be closed.  
From his stretcher, Sandor couldn't see the dead person who was about to be buried, so he asked the Elder Brother: “Who's in there?”  
“A young man, a middle-aged man and an old woman.”  
Sandor bethought himself and had a weird lump in his throat when he said: “Put... put the kitten into the grave with the old woman. She... may have been a mother. I think–”  
He gulped.  
“I think he'll be safe with her.”

For a heartbeat, the Elder Brother's eyes widened. Then, he nodded and put the lifeless little fuzzball into the grave. Then, he spoke a prayer for the dead ones. Finally, they left the gravedigger to his own devices, and the monks returned Sandor to the surviving kittens... who were already crying for warmth and food, especially insolent little Grumkin.


	10. 1.9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes a longer chapter for those who have been waiting. :-)

For the next three days, Sandor took care of his little mewling wards according and kept true to the Elder Brother's handbook, but he lacked whatever interest he had had in raising the kittens. He only had to think of Handy's death to have the feeling that all his efforts were pointless.

“I'm not good enough for them, and they'll die soon anyway.”

Those were the words that meandered through his brain.

 

Sandor kept thinking of his dead sister, too. If only he could have helped her, but it had been impossible. He had failed her then, and he had failed little Handy now. It was good Sansa hadn't come with him on the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. He'd have failed her, too – like he had done before when he hadn't intervened when those blasted knights in their blasted white armour had beaten her at court. Sandor could still hear her squeals and sobs.

So who was he fooling? He couldn't help anyone, or keep anyone safe. Why had he ever been employed as Joffrey's sworn shield? They had all deluded themselves and believed him to be a good personal guard for the prince. A prince who had looked up at Sandor as a little child, because his drunkard of a stupid, shallow, fornicating father had been such a disappointment. Sandor should have used his influence for the greater good and should have educated the boy. Instead, he had just stood by and watched Joffrey turn into a sadistic monster. Oh yes, Sandor had fucked it all up, there was no denying it anymore.

 

What should he do in the future then? He'd be a cripple, a useless cripple. He couldn't even work as a mercenary under these circumstances. By the look of it, the only thing he could do was to ask the Elder Brother for a task – something simple where he couldn't cause any more harm. Sandor hated the Quiet Isle, loathed the Faith (or religion in general), but he had run out of options, apart from going and meeting the Stranger.

Sandor shuddered. He wasn't afraid of dying and had always expected to get mortally wounded in a battle sooner than later, but now that he had time to reflect upon it he wasn't keen on burning in the seven hells quite so soon...

 

Despite his own morose mood the kittens were becoming livelier by the day. They didn't just sleep and eat and shit any more – they started to crawl, if only a little, blind as they still were. Sandor swore when Marby moved below the blanket, and a tiny paw with spiky claws sank right into the warrior's navel. The peeping noises from the fuzzball sounded as if it was frustrated its progress had been hampered.

“Fucking little flea bundles,” Sandor growled and put Marby back onto the fleece.

 

Apart from that, Witch was constipated for a few hours, but with Brother Sunsen's support and some watered down milk the crisis was overcome. Sure, technically speaking Sunsen didn't do much, apart from being a handyman, but Sandor felt it was... good not to be alone in this situation. The monk smiled when the kitten's backside clogging came lose with explosive diarrhoea. Sandor wasn't amused; Witch was lying on his chest and it turned out that the fleece was no barrier for the kitten's dung attack... In fact, the little one squirted in such a way that some of the shit dripped over his shoulder. That caused Brother Sunsen to grin wider, and the man was even stifling a giggle.

Still, Sandor fought back his need to yell at the monk, knowing it had been a long time for the man since he had smiled the last time. Besides, he could do without another wigging from the Elder Brother's side.

 

After this episode, Witch had recovered from her constipation, but Sandor's own healing was slow. Which was agonising, but the wound didn't get infected, which was better than nothing. Still – as an active man, it drove him insane to be lying around, doing nothing. Apart from making kittens burp and shit, that was. Sandor longed to run across a yard and to swing a sword again. To feel his blood pump through his veins and whoosh in his ears. To feel alive. Sandor feared he might never be able to sprint again, and whenever that thought came up he wanted to hack something to pieces.

 

At least he was able to sit up for a few minutes now, though it still hurt a lot. The Elder Brother had a look at what was going on below the bandages every day and was content with the progress.

“Give it another day or two, and you'll be able to stand on your good leg with a brother's support. We need to get your circulation going again, but we have to be careful. Won't do us any good, if you're as proud as you're stubborn and you get up so quickly that you faint like a panting maid in a corset.”

Sandor snorted.

“Would be the bloody spectacle of the decade, I'd wager.”

“What – you fainting or wearing a corset?”

“Elder Brother, you've got the twisted, depraved sense of humour of the Seven.”

The monk clicked his tongue as if to criticize his wording, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

 

Because of Witch's diarrhoea and the Elder Brother's inspection the regular feeding was half an hour late. Sandor was a bit unnerved and unprepared for a discovery. He tried to speed up the process by giving Grumkin his ration first, because he'd cause the least problems. Then came Proud River, Taunty, Marby and Witch.

The last one to be fed was Damsel. When Sandor picked her up he started and inspected her a bit closer.

His mouth opened and his slate eyes became darker.

“Fuck me sideways!” he mumbled, and the next moment, he roared: “Sunsen! Sunsen! Over here!”

 

Since the monk had only left with the Elder Brother a few moments before he was back in no time and signalled Sandor to tell him what was going on.

The scarred warrior could barely speak, bit back a tear (though he would never admit it) and croaked: “Look! Just look!”

He held up the kitten.

Brother Sunsen gazed at the animal and scratched his head, seemingly without understanding what was going on.

Annoyed, Sandor rasped: “Can't you see? The little one – her eyes are opening!”

Finally, the monk understood, he started to beam in sheer joy and his head bobbed up and down.

Meanwhile, Sandor looked at Damsel again. Only a little slit could be seen under the eyelids so far, but the gradual opening of the eyes was unmistakable. What was more: it was already discernible that the kitten's eyes would be blue.

Sandor's thoughts somersaulted and returned to the past. Oh... red hair and blue eyes... f...

 

The Elder Brother poked in his head.

“Everything all right?”

His question was met with two avid nods and wide grins. The Elder Brother's head moved back a little, and his bushy eyebrows went up. He blinked.

“Fine, fine. Keep up with... whatever you're doing then.”

The next moment, he was gone again.

 

Sandor addressed Brother Sunsen: “Would you like to hold her for a moment?”

The monks eyes became radiant, and he took the kitten with utmost care. Ever so gently, he rubbed his nose against hers. Sandor felt a sting, but he scolded himself for being jealous at once. After all, Brother Sunsen was taking care of the kittens as well and deserved a moment with the sweet redhead.

 

“Eeek!” Damsel peeped.

At once, Sandor's mind snapped back to the matter at hand and while Sunsen was handing her back, Sandor muttered: “Yes, yes, you're still hungry, little one, aren't you? Yes, come here, I've got some nice milk for you. Nice milk for a pretty little lady. Mmmh, that's right, isn't it? Yeeees, good girl. Mmmh, and what are you doing? Looking at me? And what are you thinking of the ugly, scarred human? No complaints? Yes, good, here, have another droplet of milk.”

 

Only when Brother Sunsen sat down on the chair next to him did Sandor realise the monk was still there. They couldn't help but smile at each other, something they had never done before, but the next moment, Sandor's focus returned to Damsel.

 

“That was good, wasn't it? Yes, fine. Does the pretty lady want to have her face wiped? Yes? See, now you look all proper again. And you'll let me rub your little belly now, won't you? Yeees, that's right. My, you know how to purr. You like my index finger there? Yes? You know I'll be good to you and keep you safe, won't you? And now: will you be a sweet one and make a little burp for me?”

“Burp.”

Sandor was brimming with happiness when he addressed Brother Sunsen: “Have you seen? Have you heard? She knows how to behave.”

Sunsen was grinning... and then, he leaned over and gave Sandor a short pat on the shoulder.

 

The warrior blinked and looked a bit owlish.

After a split second, however, he cleared his throat, and mumbled at the monk while watching Damsel fall asleep: “It's good you're helping me with the little ones. Would you take them again tomorrow so I can get a good night's sleep?”

The monk nodded, stroked the kittens one by one, then stood up and left.

The kittens on Sandor's chest were all slumbering now for once, their warm little bodies breathing evenly. Damsel was even purring in her sleep and looked so trusting and peaceful that it caused a lump in Sandor's throat.

After a while of watching the furry babies and of having been oblivious of the world around him Sandor's thoughts returned to Brother Sunsen. The scarred warrior scratched his nose. For once, he didn't want to turn a man of the Faith into hash. A bloody novelty – and it was even more unsettling that he thought he liked the feeling. That he liked Brother Sunsen.

He couldn't like a sodding monk, could he?


	11. 2

**2nd week**

 

Over the next days, the little tufts of fur opened their eyes one by one. Sandor kept waving his fingers right in front of them to watch their reactions. It was interesting to watch their senses sharpen. At first, the little ones barely moved, but after a day or two they started to follow his movements with their eyes. Witch and Marby were the quickest ones to do so. At the same time, Sandor couldn't help himself and thought that Damsel's eyes were the bluest and the most beautiful ones.

 

Brother Sunsen came over more often than before.

“His fascination for the babies is stronger than his fear of me,” Sandor thought and could barely believe it, for it was nothing short of a wonder.

The fact that the monk didn't talk was most welcome to the former Hound. The two would often sit together in silence, each one hanging on to their own thoughts, or just enjoying the purring and mewling of the kittens.

 

Once, Brother Narbert came in to see Sandor on a day when the monks were allowed to talk.

He raised his eyebrows at the two men, who were in the process of rubbing tiny furry bellies after a round of food and said: “Brother Sunsen, you must concentrate better on your other duties. We've missed you at mass.”

The poor, scolded man pulled in his head and looked miserable.

Of course, Sandor was having none of this reprimand and cut in: “He's doing better work here than in your bloody sept. Your bloody blabbering there wouldn't help these animals one whit if he didn't take the feeding rhythm so seriously.”

Brother Narbert curled his lips.

“This isn't blabbering, this is praying! I should expect more respect from someone who's getting our medical treatment.”

“Pah!” Sandor rasped back. “Didn't ask for your help, did I? And I'm respecting those who have earned my resp–“

Brother Sunsen patted his arm at that moment, and this gesture as well as his face said: “It's all right. Let it be. I'm fine.”

It was an instant while the monk's eyes weren't wandering like usually.

 

So Sandor kept his mouth shut, apart from a low growl. In that situation, he was relieved the kittens' ears were still closed. He wondered what Proud River would have said to his frequent swearing.

These musings became relevant again the next day, because Sandor had more need of foul language then: he had to start his first physical exercises.

 

The Elder Brother triggered it all off. In the morning, he came into Sandor's room and looked at his patient and his wards.

“Looks like the kittens are doing fine,” the monk started.

“Gluttons, that's what they are,” Sandor answered. “You should see Grumkin wolf down his food. He's the biggest one of the bunch now. Quite the rascal.”

 

The Elder Brother smiled.

“Fine, fine. But maybe we should have another look at the biggest rascal now.”

In a heartbeat Sandor realized the man wasn't referring to Grumkin and he had dubbed Sandor “rascal” instead. A tirade of insults was the natural consequence.

The Elder Brother couldn't be bothered by the foul language; he simply let Sandor rage and took off the bandages from around the wound.

 

“This looks better than I'd have ever thought possible. You're a tough one, and you've got good flesh for healing,” the monk said.

“Really?” Sandor asked, dithering between anger, curiosity and hope.

The Elder Brother nodded and wanted to know: “Have you stood up again?”

“Yes. For pissing and a shitting. I'm able to stand without help for a few seconds now.”

The monk looked at him.

“Mhmmm, good. Any problems?”

Sandor shrugged.

“Getting nauseous. And I feel as fucking weak as a new-born babe.”

The Elder brother nodded.

“That's normal. Muscles become weak so quickly when they aren't used properly. We have to do something about it. And we must activate your blood circulation, too, so you won't feel nauseous anymore. But we must be careful lest the whole treatment is all for naught, because we want too much too quickly.”

“Seven hells, I want to be my old self again.”

The Elder Brother looked at Sandor.

“No. You don't want that. Not really. When I see you these days I know the Hound is dead. The Hound died on the banks of the Trident. But you still need to reactivate the man Sandor underneath, like you need to train your muscles.”

Inwardly, Sandor rolled up his eyes heavenwards, but for once he didn't comment on this. He told himself that the Elder Brother's attitudes were stupid and didn't even deserve a Hound's growl.


	12. 3.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is "M" bordering on "E".

**3rd Week**

Sansa was looking him straight in the face with her Tully blue eyes, and for once, there was no fear in them. Sandor let his eyes roam over her body. She was looking even more like a woman than when he had last seen her. Those rounded hips were most alluring, and her pert breasts had grown to a size where they would fill a man's hand – perhaps even his own big paws.

“I've been waiting for you all this time,” she murmured, and his cock became alive.

“What have you been waiting for?” Sandor growled. “To become a Hound's feast instead of a dwarf's? Because what I want is to devour you, little bird, and make no mistake.”

 

Sansa looked at his bulging breeches and blushed like she had always used to do – but this time she didn't avert her eyes. Instead, she stepped closer.

“No, Sandor Clegane, you're certainly no dwarf,” she said in that gentle voice of hers.

Next, a hand cupped his private parts. Sandor gasped and couldn't believe his little bird had become so daring. He told her as much and moved into that soft touch of hers, which intensified the sensation.  
Sansa giggled in the girlish way he remembered. She was fascinated and moved her fingers a little. At the same time, her other hand pushed up his tunic, trailed through the thick, curly hair on his chest, and Sandor thought he was close to the seven heavens.

 

“How is this possible?” he thought.

His musings came to an abrupt halt when Sansa stepped even closer, took one of his nipples into her mouth and started to suckle. Her soft auburn locks brushed his skin in the process. Sandor moaned and was on the edge of going cuckoo. He had never known himself to be so sensitive to another one's touch, and a tear leaked out of the corner of his eyes.

 

The next instant, his eyelids snapped open, and he was confronted with harsh reality.

“Damsel, get lost at once – this is not your mommy's teat! And Marby, get away from my cock!” Sandor bellowed.

Within a second, he had scooped up the little culprits and put them into their basket. All the while, he kept on cursing in sheer frustration. His bloody cock was hurting from sheer need. Which was no fucking wonder, given how long it had been since it had received some attention.

With a snarl, Sandor put the other tufts of fur into their padded container, then took himself in hand and did what had to be done. That he couldn't help but relive the dream he had had accelerated the process: it was over within a minute.

Relief was immense, but it came at the price of a bad conscience.

“Seven hells. Before I knew the little bird I didn't even know what a bad conscience was! And now, it's only a dream, nothing real. Not even close to the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. I should give a fig about it. Fuck. Fuck it all!”

 

Once he had wiped off his seed, he grabbed the kittens again and but them back onto his body. Where they belonged. Next, he took hold of the milk jug and the pipette. No, his hands weren't trembling, were hey? And did real mothers feel like that, too, after they had fucked again for the first time after giving birth? Damn, life was weird!

 

“Is it time for your next round of food? Don't know, but... Grumkin! Grumkin, you're hungry, aren't you? Yes, like always, right? Right? Good boy! That's it, that's just it. Nice, smooth milk going down your throat like naked mice. Fiiiine. What a good one you are. Let me rub your belly. Let me... whoah, now that's a burp if I ever heard one and... Marby, have you just farted? Haven't you done enough mischief already? Proud River, don't look at me like that! Yes, Witch, here we are, here's the milk. Good girl. Ouch, have I ever told you I hate those little claws of yours? Hey, leave some milk for Damsel, you greedy one!”

On and on Sandor prattled, and there was no helping it. He pushed the question aside why a taciturn man like him was so talkative all of a sudden. Deep down, he had an inkling he wouldn't have liked the answer.


	13. 3.2

The Elder Brother's handbook told Sandor that at this point, he could slowly change the feeding rhythm from two to three hours, so Sandor tried out the alteration.

Well. It earned him Grumkin's consistent lamentations. And though Sandor knew cats could be stubborn and unnerving, the kitten's heart-wrenching mewls soon cost him what little patience he possessed.

 

“Bleeding lint of a would-be-lion! The Stranger take you! Trying to sound eloquent like the Imp did? Trying to arouse some pity to get what you want, you greedy little gnome? I can tell – ... Damsel, what is it?”

The rusty-furred female kitten had winced, and Sandor was worried at once. Did his sweet girl suffer from any sort of pain? He put her on his big paw.

“Hey, little one, everything all right?”

Damsel moved her head a little, but seemed to be confused.

“Eeek?” she mewled.

Sandor rubbed her tiny nose lightly with his index finger.

“What is it, hm??” he asked the kitten.

Damsel's head moved again, here and there, and she looked at Sandor.

“Eeek?”

 

It was then, that it dawned on Sandor: Damsel had heard him! Her ears were opening! Only she still couldn't locate the source of the sounds yet, but oh, that was only a matter of time.

Deep down in his chest, Sandor could feel his heart start a weird pitter-pattering beat.

“Damsel! You can hear me? Yes? You can hear the barking of the big, ugly dog?”

“Eeek?”

“Already starting to chirp at me like a little bird, hm? You know, there was once another little bird, and she was always chirping at me.”

“Eeek.”

“What was that? Are you underwhelmed by my memories?”

Sandor put Damsel down on his chest.

“Eeek.”

 

Next, the kitten started to wiggle and to move upwards, as if she wanted to come closer to where the sounds were coming from... and then, she bumped with her body against Sandor's chin and with her nose against his lower lips.

Suddenly, all Sandor could see in front of his inner eye was auburn hair and light skin, tainted by a garish green coming from the windows, coming from outside where people were still fighting. And dying. Sandor remembered oh, so blue eyes wide with fear right in front of his own ones, the feeling of the hilt of a knife in his hand... but there had also been the warm touch of a hand on his cheek and a song. Such a wonderful song. For him. For him alone. Although it had been sung in a shaky voice.

 

“Eeek?”

Bump number two.

“Mmhh...?”

Sandor came back to his senses, scratched his head and wiped his cheek. Damsel looked right at his face.

“Not flinching from my burns? You're a brave one, do you know that?”

Bump.

“What the fuck are you doing? Trying to kiss me? The rabid Lannister dog, getting kissed by a kitten? Do you know you're the first one who's kissing me since I got burned?”

Bump.

“Eeek.”

 

Sandor chuckled, and Damsel reacted with bafflement to the new sound. He rubbed her little nose a second time and smiled, though his mouth twitched and his heart was heavy.

“You know – I wanted to kiss the little bird, too, back then, before I ran away with my tail tucked between my legs. I even intended to do other things to her, far worse things, but when she sang for me, I didn't do – ouch! Witch! Can you stop clawing at my nether regions?”

“Eeek?”

“Why do you ask, Damsel? It's hardly a surprise that Witch is trying to do that. It's some training for her paws – but I'm sure she'll prefer Taunty, once she's coming into the right age, you'll see.”

Damsel looked at Sandor, inclined her head in utter cluelessness, sniffled with her tiny nostrils and...  
… bump.


	14. 3.3

After this memorable incident, things became even sweeter for Sandor, because his little babies were becoming livelier and were always intent on cuddling. Their purring chorus was like a massage all over his body. One by one, the ears opened, and Sandor thought he had never spoken so much in a gentle voice before (or at least as gentle as his steel-on-stone voice could possibly get).

 

Brother Sunsen passed long hours with him, and it gladdened Sandor's heart to see the monk so happy with his little wards. Despite the wandering eyes, Sunsen was good at weaving baskets, something Sandor hadn't known beforehand, but the monk started to bring along his work. When Sandor asked, it turned out that the kitten basket had been made by Sunsen, too.

Most of the time, however, they shared a companionable silence because of the monk's vow not to speak. As long as Sandor hadn't been around the little bird, he'd never been much of a talker, because people had rarely cared to listen to him, the burned Dog. That Sandor didn't have any lengthy conversations with Sunsen felt different: it was all right, and most of the time they understood each other without words. That was a new experience.

 

To Sandor's eternal confusion, even Brother Corrym looked after him more often and stayed to play with Taunty, Grumkin and the rest.

And Sandor wasn't mad at the men of the Faith for staying with him, much to his own surprise. After all, you couldn't be angry with a man whose intent was to play with kittens. Quite the contrary, Sandor had an odd feeling deep down in his chest when the two monks stayed in his room; he was all warm and fuzzy on the inside, and when Marby or Damsel burped he sometimes couldn't even help chuckling.

It took him a while to recognise he was happy.

 

The realisation came to him as a shock. Sandor wasn't accustomed to happiness.

_“Fuck, better don't get accustomed by it,” he thought. “I'm sure it won't last. Another kitten will die, or the little ones will grow up and leave, and then, I'll be alone again. Or something worse may happen as well. Westeros is still at war, and as old Ned Stark would have said it: 'Winter is coming.'”_

 

So when Witch started to drink less, his heart clammed up at once.

_“I knew it. She'll be the next one to follow Handy into an untimely grave.”_

 

A little later, the Elder Brother popped in to have a look at his patient.

“What's wrong, Sandor? Is your wound worse?”

“My bloody wound? What do I care, for fuck's sake?”

The monk cocked his head.

“And how are the kittens?”

Sasndor snorted.

“How should they be? I knew it was a bad idea to let me stay in charge of them. Me, the bloody sidekick of the Stranger.”

 

The Elder Brother scratched his lower lip.

“Which kitten is ill, Sandor? I can have a look at it. I could heal a giant of a man like you, so I can give it a try with the litter, too.”

 

Sandor growled into his beard stubble – he had refused to get shaved that day – and presented Witch to the Elder Brother. She looked less lively than she had done on the previous days.

The Elder Brother sat down on the chair and had a good look at the little one. After what felt like an eternity to Sandor, the man looked up and smiled. Sandor's heart fluttered in response.

The Elder Brother said: “No need to worry. Her behaviour is normal at this stage. She's teething. The other kittens will behave the same way soon enough, but give them a few days and they'll be as hungry again as they've always been.”

 

A huge rock rolled off Sandor's heart.

He said: “Good to know. Now that you're mentioning it... I can remember when Cersei Lannister's children were toothing. They were in a bad mood then as well and didn't want to eat.”

What he didn't say aloud was: _“And in Joffrey's case – why did only his hunger return, but never his good mood? Bloody Lannister brat.”_

The Elder Brother simply nodded at what Sandor had uttered.

“But be that as it may. Children grow up fast, and animal children even faster than humans. Your kittens will be back to normal in no time – and now, let's talk about your healing. How are you doing?”

 

Sandor harrumphed and took Witch back from the Elder Brother.

“Training my arms and my torso every day. Brother Corrym has given me these logs for some exercises. When I'm standing I'm less nauseous now. And yesterday, I've managed to make my first steps over there to the pisspot-chair you've sent to my room. I tell you – I was so bloody sick of the bedpan.”

“How about a little 'thank you' then, Sandor?” the Elder Brother said in a mild voice.

Sandor looked at the monk and knitted his brows. After a heavy silent moment, he curled his lip until the burned corner of his mouth twitched, and huffed a quick “thank you”.

At that moment, he remembered how the little bird had tried to thank him after the bread riots, how he had snarled at her, and he felt all sour inside. Fortunately, the Elder Brother distracted him at once.

 

“Well, Sandor, to give you an idea on my next plans: you need to learn how to walk again, of course. As it is, my men are all busy with other tasks, and Brother Sunsen will have to take care of the kittens while you're doing your exercises.”

On the one hand, Sandor was relieved the monks wouldn't be holding his hands all the time while he was trying to learn to walk again, but on the other hand....

“Can't the kittens stay with me?”

 

The Elder Brother closed his eyes and tilted his head thoughtfully for a brief moment. A flicker of a smile twitched at one corner of his mouth, and finally he spoke.

“On a sunny day, they can come outside with Brother Sunsen, but it's autumn and temperatures are dropping at times. Our priority is to keep them warm.”

Sandor arched his good eyebrow.

“You mean I can go outside?”

“We'll carry you outside, Sandor. Brother Corrym came up with the idea that you're accustomed to a training yard, so he has prepared a training programme for you. Of course, you can have the wooden logs from in here in the yard as well. But he has also constructed a handrail that is robust enough for you and your moods. You can practise walking there. In the beginning, there will be a chair at either end of the handrail. When you're better we'll remove one chair, but it's me who will decide when that will happen. Otherwise, you'd want to achieve too much and too soon, impatient as you are.”

Sandor growled, but he knew better than to object to a truth.

The Elder Brother went on: “Another point is that you can stay outside for a while and that you can watch what is going on around you. Besides, the fresh air will do you good.”

“When can we start?”

 

The Elder Brother erupted with laughter.

“Mother have mercy, I'm getting to know you well, Sandor. Brother Sunsen, Brother Corrym! You may come in now. Our dear Sandor is eager to start his exercises.”

When the two monks entered, Sandor growled again and thought it was good that the Elder Brother wasn't an enemy on a battlefield. The man knew absolutely too much about war tactics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the idea with the handrail: I'm applying some real-life memories here. It's how my grandma learned to walk again after a stroke.


	15. 3.4

Aaah! The feeling of wind and light on his skin! True, it was a cloudy day, but that was still better then the stale air in his room. Sandor felt like a butterfly after leaving his cocoon stretching his sensitive wings. Well, he guessed he'd be one of those dark, ugly moths, given his looks.

 

Brother Corrym and Brother Sunsen had carried him out on a stretcher, and now, he saw the construction the Elder Brother had mentioned to him. The handrail was made of solid wood, just as promised.

 _“It should be able to support even a big bastard like me,”_ he thought.

The fact that it was only about eight yards long did little for him to feel better, though.

_“Just a few bleeding steps, and then I'm supposed to sit on my arse again? Bleh! Am I an old dodderer? Do these guys expect me to pray to the Crone?”_

For once, however, Sandor didn't complain aloud. He knew he'd have to start at the very beginning. His excursion to the pisspot-chair had told him as much.

 

Once everything was arranged for Sandor, the monks left him alone.

First of all, he took a good look at the place around him. On his way here, he'd been unconscious, or so feverish that he had forgotten his journey. And during the burial of Handy Stark he'd had no mind for the scenery. Thus, it was no surprise that things were different now.

 

_“All right, so there's the cloister. Wonder what the little bird would think – me in a cloister, of all men. And her brat of a little sister? Would laugh off her arse and consider it the perfect kind of torture for me, I'd wager. Now, what's that building over there? Hmm, perhaps the place where the monks eat. The sept – pfft, what a surprise, haha – some gardens, some fields, aha, and there's a windmill. Wondering which of those other buildings are the stables? Perhaps the one where the ferry arrives. Makes sense. Hope Stranger is all right. If he isn't I'll make the brothers eat their entrails. – – And now: don't give the sodding monks the impression you're idle, Sandor. Up!”_

 

That inner command was followed by a loud groan. It couldn't be helped. It was good that he had already trained his arms over the last days, because his feet could barely support him. Without the monks' help he needed to lean heavily onto the handrail. In this way, he made two little steps... then turned and barely made it back to his chair.

Panting, he sat down, and a sweat broke on his brow.

“Seven bleeding hells of shit!” he hollered.

 

After some minutes, when his breathing had normalised, he started a second attempt. The result was the same.

Sandor stared at the chair at the other end of the handrail as if it were the Kingslayer mocking him for his weekness. He clenched his teeth.

“I'm not a soft puppy. Just you wait. And I'll rejoice on the day when I can shred you to splinters and burn you in the kitchen fire. Har!”

 

In this manner, the hours passed by. Sandor would try to get up, groan, make some steps, nearly collapse, and totter back to his chair, swearing in the filthiest manner he could think of. Sometimes, a monk passed him in silence, but the sods were all frightened of him and tried to keep a distance.

 _“Better for them,”_ he thought and growled.

Brother Narbert was the only one he knew in all that time, and the proctor simply eyed Sandor up and down, but didn't speak. Obviously, it was one of the days when he was supposed to stay silent. That was just after Sandor's taste. That way, the stupid monk could only show contempt with his eyes and his posture – but not go onto Sandor's nerves with his voice as well.

 

In the evening, Sandor was taken back to his room – and back to his little wards, who were all crying.

“What's wrong with them?” Sandor asked Brother Sunsen.

The monk pointed at Sandor, then to the kittens, then back to Sandor.

“What the fuck do you want to tell me?”

Sunsen's eyes started to wander some more, and he repeated the gestures.

Sandor still didn't have a clue about what it all meant, but didn't want to put the man under stress, so he patted Sunsen's shoulders.

“It's all right, it's all right. It's time for another round of food, isn't it? – Come here, little ones, come here. Hmmm? The big, ugly Hound is back. What do you say to that? Are you hungry? See, here is some milk. Taunty, come here, let's begin with you. Do you know that there's a chair outside that grins at me like a Lannister bastard? No, you don't, and that's just fine. Aaah, so the milk is good? Fair enough.”

Within minutes, the kittens had calmed down and had fallen asleep on Sandor's chest. Sunsen relaxed, his eyes became steadier again, and he smiled. When the monk took his leave, his and Sandor's good humour was restored.


	16. 4.1

**4th Week**

   
The Elder Brother had been right: Sandor's wards had all teethed, and now their appetite was more than back to normal. One morning, after a short nap in between feeding rounds, Sandor awoke once more because one kitten tried to suck on his nipple; this time, it was Witch.

   
“The Seven take me!” Sandor growled and removed the fair-furred little beauty from a spot he had not known to be so sensitive. “Not only using your claws on me, but also your teeth. But I swear I'm immune to your seductive charms.”

“Maow!”

“Do you want to have some milk, my greedy lady? Ah, well, come here then. Hey, fuck me sideways, what...!?”

   
Witch was stretching and straining her legs... and stood up. For about three heartbeats. After that, she toppled over and meowed loudly. This, in it's turn, distracted Taunty, who had been playing with his own paws. Of course, the loyal sibling had to join his sister in her claims for food.

   
Sandor snorted and grinned.

_“Why am I not surprised it's the golden-haired folks that tries to stand up first? Adventurous feline lot. Looks like they won't be sleeping on my chest much longer. I'll have to ask Sunsen to make some sort of wickerwork cage for them so they can learn to walk and to play in a safe space.”_

When the monk entered Sandor's room the next time Sunsen nodded his agreement to the idea about the cage. Sunsen even smiled, and his wandering eyes started to sparkle.

   
Sandor's healing process continued, though Sandor thought it was horribly slow. He had finally made it from one end of the handrail to the other; he had roared then in both triumph and pain alike. Still, he only had to think of his former fitness, of how people had trembled before him in battle, and he felt the need to curse.

   
His healing process didn't become any easier when the Elder Brother visited him in the courtyard and began one of his bloody unnerving conversations. It all started in an apparently harmless way.

“You look stronger and healthier by the day, Sandor.”

“Pah, I'm a tottering cripple, that much I've understood over the last days.”

   
The Elder Brother sighed.

“You may retain a bit of a limp, I'll be honest about that. Yet, I'm convinced that you'll be able to make good use of your wounded leg. You've got an iron will, you're tough, and you've got a good discipline. Other men wouldn't have survived the injury to begin with. But I have to say it was all hanging by a single thread. And there was one aspect that made your situation even worse.”

   
Sandor knitted his brows... or at least his good brow, because he couldn't control the burned side of his face well enough.

“What do you mean?”

The Elder Brother shrugged.

"You weren't only trembling from fever. It looks like you were also... missing alcohol.”

   
Had the monk whipped him it could not have stung more, and Sandor sat up straighter.

“What the fuck do you mean? Do you want to tell me I'm a drunkard like this wimp Dontos, the king's fool? Are you mad? That buggering sod was pissed when he was supposed to fight, do you know that? If not for the little... anyway, he almost died because of his stupidity. I was never like that! You could always count on my deadliness. Before I was wounded I was one of the fiercest fighters in all of Westeros!”

   
The Elder Brother shot Sandor a side glance.

“I don't know this Dontos, so I cannot compare you to him. However, I can compare you to other men I've known. The craving for beer and wine can come out in different ways in a man. Yet, the signs when there is no opportunity for drinking alcohol are rather similar. And you showed those signs. Apart from that – do you remember how you shouted for some sort of spirits when you awoke? Are you sure that in the year before your injury you were still as focused as you had been beforehand?”

“Of course!” Sandor shot back at once and looked away. “And if I wanted to have beer and such from you – why, how could a man endure the shit I was in – and that I'm still in – in a sober way!?”

“For example by focusing on kittens. Sandor, don't you realise you're using an argument that only proves my point? That you're first thinking of alcohol in order to be able to face some sort of hardship?”

   
Sandor felt the good side of his face heat up and threw daggers at the monk with his gaze.

“I don't need to listen to this huge pile of bullshit!” he thundered. “If you mean to call me a drunkard you can move your wrinkled arse away. I've heard lots of crap over the last years, but this tops it all! Get lost, bloody monk! The Stranger take you!”

   
The Elder Brother looked at him, disappointment and sadness written all over his face. Bah, did the bugger want him to feel guilty? The sheer stupidity of it. Sandor averted his eyes from the leader of the Quiet Isle again.

After a heavy silence he heard the monk's sigh. The man got up and left.

   
Sandor threw his hands into the air. As if someone's depressed expression would cause him a bad conscience!

 _“I'm returning to my little babies,”_  he thought and nodded to himself.

Next, he called for a monk to carry him back to his room. No reaction. Sandor called again.

“Hey, I need to take a shit. Do you want to have a heap in the yard?”

Nothing.

   
_“Aha. So the buggers mean to abandon me, because I'm not dancing after their bloody tune. Or hobbling after their tune. Whatever. Fair enough. I can make it back on my own. And later down to the ferry, if need be.”_

   
Sandor stood up from his chair, turned, and made two steps without the handrail.

He fell.

He cursed in the filthiest possible way.

He crawled back to his room on his hands and his good leg.

 

When he arrived at the door and opened it he faced Proud Rivers who had obviously struggled out of the basket and had left her siblings. She mewled nervously, because she was already missing the litter.

“Now look at us creepy crawlies,” Sandor commented in a bitter tone, sat up and took her in his hands.

No sooner was he holding her than Proud Rivers started to purr and to bump her head against his fingers, which were dusty and dirty after having crawled on the ground.

“At least someone is still willing to welcome my presence,” Sandor murmured, half mollified. “So you're grateful for my care? Who the fuck would have ever expected this? If only the queen's golden-haired spawn had shown me one tenth of your gratitude. Sometimes, it looked as if I was supposed to be some sort of father for inbred Joffrey and the others, because Robert was too much of a dickhead to act like one himself. Not that he had actually had any right to do so, but still. As if I could have ever filled such a role. Didn't fuck the lioness to begin with, and I know shit about family life. Nah, and mollycoddled Joff wasn't even able to piss straight. Fat chance for me to turn him into a man with a backbone.”

   
By then, Damsel had noticed his arrival and was trying to make her way to him, though her legs were still wobbly.

Like so often these days, he remembered how Sansa had approached him once and had thanked him for saving her during the bread riots – and how he had snarled back. How he had told her more than once how he hated liars. But he himself had lied for her. No, he wasn't as honest as he wanted to make himself and others believe.

Sandor also thought of their encounter on the serpentine steps. Of how very drunk he had been. And nasty. It had been even worse during the Battle of the Blackwater. He had been in his cups again and had promptly turned into a shitstain. Oh, and the moment he had received the wound on his leg, back in that inn...

“Fuck, but what else could I have done?” Sandor ground out and stroked Damsel with his finger. “I had just learned that Sansa had been sold off to the bloody Imp. Ready to be used by the bloody whoreson in the marriage bed.”

Damsel meowed, and Grumkin looked over the rim of the basket.

“Yes, yes, call for him. I wonder if Sansa is calling for Tyrion as well. But Tyrion can't save her from Joffrey's cruel games all the time. He'll surely break her, arrogant Lannister bugger that he is. And his family will make sure he does.”

   
Damsel meowed and licked the fingers of his free hand.

“Hmm. So you think the dirty Hound needs a wash?”

“Meeps.”

Proud Rivers looked at him as if she agreed.

“All right. Let's put you inside my tunic so I can carry you back the last metres to the bed. And then on to the milk. No alcohol, I swear. And I usually don't make any vows.”

   
When Brother Corrym came into his room much later, the man kept his distance and looked cautious.

But Sandor had calmed down from his tantrum in the yard and said: “Tell the Elder Brother that my reaction was probably too harsh. But... no matter what was in the past and who of us was right... I won't be drinking again. Ever.”

Brother Corrym pointed to his lips.

 _“Damn,”_  Sandor thought.  _“The vow of silence.”_

“Do you have a little board and some chalk? Or a scrap of paper and ink?” As an afterthought, he added “please”.

   
The monk came back with a small piece of wood and some coal. Fuck. There wasn't much space for him to write a message, especially since he had such big hands and since his handwriting wasn't anywhere near as neat as the little bird's.

   
The burned corner of Sandor's mouth twitched. He uttered a growl. And then another.

“I'm becoming a sissy. Let's hope nobody will ever find out about this,” he thought.

And then he wrote “sorry”.


	17. 4.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's bromance ahead.

Sandor had not met the Elder Brother again, but Brother Corrym came to his room and helped him to the chamberpot chair. The monk also provided him with water for washing and food for both Sandor and the kittens.

“Looks like I'm being accepted back,” Sandor thought.

He didn't like the realisation one whit, but it was a relief to know he wouldn't be cast out any moment. It would have been impossible to take the kittens along to the mainland. Besides, Sandor was still too weak to return to war-ridden Westeros, there was no denying it.

 

So Sandor sat down on the ground and let his little furries roam the room. Grumkin made the funniest waddling movements when he tried to walk. Proud Rivers, Damsel, Taunty and Witch were already able to walk a bit better. To Sandor's surprise, Marby showed no interest in exploring his surroundings and rather wanted to cuddle with him.

“Hey boy, taking me for a shieldmate? But I'm not such a sort of man. Go, play with Taunty!” Sandor told the rusty-furred fellow.

He took hold of Marby and placed him next to the golden-haired sibling, who meowed in happy excitement at once.

 

After a while, Sandor gathered his babies on his chest and initiated the next feeding round. The little ones were yawning from their play by then and fell asleep as soon as they had burped – or in Damsel's case even while she was suckling on the pipette.

That caused Sandor to grin, and since it was already after nightfall, he allowed himself a lengthy nap, too. Around midnight, he awoke again, fed the kittens once more, and they all went back to sleep.

 

WHAM!

The door crashed open. Sandor started and because of his old soldier's instincts, he sat up so quickly that the kittens rolled off his chest and started to squeal.

 

Brother Sunsen was standing in the entrance, trembling and eyes wandering so madly that it was clear at once something was going wrong outside.

With quick movements Sandor picked up Marby and the others, put them into their basket and placed it onto the ground.

At the same time, he asked in alarm: “Sunsen! What is it?”

 

Of course, Sandor didn't expect an answer from the silent brother.

So his shock was immense when Sunsen answered in a surprisingly melodious tenor: “The Bay of Crabs... Fire... Saltpans on fire. Couldn't sleep. Milenya's nameday. The horizon is aflame.”

 

Sandor had no time to process either the fact that his friend was talking, or that the town in the Quiet Isle's vicinity was on fire. An icy shiver crept down his spine. He looked down at his kittens, gazed back up at Sunsen and saw green, garish flames in front of his inner eyes.

 

The next moment, the monk had come over to him. Sunsen was sobbing, and his teeth were rattling. Before Sandor understood what was going on the monk knelt on the edge of the bed, threw his arms around Sandor and huddled closer.

The sensation, the sudden closeness – it was a shock. Of course, men slept right next to each other during military field campaigns to keep warm at night. It was the greatest physical closeness with another human Sandor had ever known, so he didn't know how to handle this embrace.

He also remembered Sansa when she had been sobbing during and after her beatings, thought of how he had pulled her out of bed after her father's execution and had felt at a loss for what to do to calm her down. Seven hells. This was no easier for him.

 

Sunsen sobbed against Sandor's chest and writhed in panic.

“Think, Sandor, think! What did you do with Stranger when you bought him, and he was in hysterics because of his former owner's brutal treatment?”

On instinct, Sandor started to murmur soothing words into Sunsen's ears. After some long minutes, the monk wept less and hiccuped. Sandor relaxed gradually and gingerly hugged his friend back. 

 

When Proctor Narbert entered the room an hour or two later at the cusp of dawn, he found the two men asleep, embracing and spooning in one bed, and with the kitten basket at their side.


	18. 4.3

In no time, the Elder Brother arrived with a face that looked like a thunderstorm.

“Care to explain the ambiguous position you and Brother Sunsen were found in? And if you weren't engaged in ungodly shieldmate activities – why is Brother Sunsen so upset that he's having spasms and keeps puking every five minutes as if he'd just had a foot in the seven hells?”

The Elder Brother's voice could have served to even cool the Wall.

Sandor rasped: “Seven Hells, we didn't fuck. Nor try to, for that matter.”

 

The Elder Brother kept staring at him.

So Sandor barked: “He had just calmed down when your proctor entered and caused him to lose his shit again. Sunsen was having some sort of fit when he came into my room. It must be his wife's or his daughter's nameday, I think. Whoever Milenya is. He couldn't sleep as usual and outside, he saw what he thought to be a big fire across the Bay of Crabs, over in Saltpans. After that, Sunsen was frantic and threw himself at me in sheer despair.”

The Elder Brother brother furrowed his brow.

 

Sandor went on: “I can bloody tell you I had no clue how to react; but I couldn't send him away either. He could have done something to himself, or he could have had an accident. Whatever. In the end, I allowed him some closeness. It was as innocent as a brothers' embrace – at least if you have a brother who isn't as brutal as mine. Fuck, I've only ever had a boner once since I arrived on this goddamn island, and it had nothing to do with Sunsen. So I'm not going to say sorry for last night, because I guess no sort of interaction with a human has been more harmless in my adult life than that one. And you know what? Even if it were different and we'd have shared some intimacies – what does it matter? There's so much shit out there in the world that it doesn't matter what form affection takes as long as it's mutual. Have you heard of Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell? Why should I or anyone care what they did in private? I could never see any harm in them being happy together, no matter what the High Septon or any other oh-so pious sod was saying. And now go, condemn me because of your stupid faith.”

 

After this extensive rant, Sandor folded his arms across his chest and glared at the Elder Brother.

The monk's jaws were still pressed tightly together, and he wasn't amused... but neither were his eyes radiating angry sparks anymore. After another moment, the man unclasped his fists and breathed in and out.  
“Given how Brother Sunsen came running out of the room after you had been discovered and given how he's still in hysterics I feared something horrible had happened to him. I don't take you for a rapist, but you've got many ways to scare a frightened person to death.”

 

Sandor snorted, but didn't deny the statement.

At that moment, the Elder Brother blinked as if something had occurred to him.

“Sandor... how do you know of the fire on the horizon last night? And how come you know the name 'Milenya'?” he asked.

 

At once, Sandor felt guilty of having confessed Sunsen's break of the vow of silence. Without answering, he looked away, to the basket with the kittens, and rubbed Marby behind his ears, which elicited a happy purr.

 

“You cannot control your voice while you're trapped in a nightmare, can you?” he finally offered and found it wasn't a real lie. After all, the past hour had been a nightmare for Sunsen.

 

The Elder Brother's features softened, and the leader of the Quiet Isle sighed.

“And you, Sandor? Did you call out someone's name last night, too?”

Sandor arched his good brow in confused alarm.

“Why should I do that? And whose name would I have on my lips?”

He grabbed Damsel, who wiggled and squeaked, and rubbed her furry belly with a finger.

 

The Elder Brother moistened his lips.

“You'd be surprised of what men tell me when they're suffering from a fever.”

 

Sandor's heartbeat quickened; he kept staring at Damsel and stroked her some more.

“I guess I must have had some nightmares when I was near death, so I'd put my wages on having mentioned my bloody brother Gregor and how I'll kill him one day.”

 

The Elder Brother shook his head.

“You were naming three... females.”

Sandor felt nauseous.

“Who?”

“A certain Feodora, Arya and Sansa. Didn't take you for such a womanizer.”

 

That caused Sandor to cast furious glances at the Elder Brother.

“None of them was my sweetheart. Feodora was my sister. She's long dead. And Arya and Sansa were two girls who crossed my ways in King's Landing and who were so annoying it wasn't funny anymore.”

 

To Sandor's surprise, the bloody monk had the nerve to smile at him.

“That would explain the 'good, loyal dog' and the 'hellion of a wolf bitch'. What I'm still not coming to terms with is the 'pretty little bird' and the 'sweet song for an old, crabby hound'.”

 

Sandor winced and felt the good half of his face heat up.

Damsel meowed and bumped her head against him.

“The 'sweet song' was the Mother's Hymn, just so you know, monk.”

 

The Elder Brother looked at him, and Sandor could tell a lot was going on behind that clever, pious brow, but the man's expression was unreadable.

 

“Hm. Hm. Hm. I see. Now let's come back to Brother Sunsen. He's our leading singer during mass, you know? Perhaps you noticed his melodious voice last night. I know you're proud to shun everything that has got anything to do with the Seven, but you should attend mass and listen to him one day. When you're better. And in the meantime – if you can help him recover that's fine by me. We've all got our unorthodox methods, haven't we?”

The Elder Brother took Damsel in his hand, looked at Sandor, and smiled.


	19. 4.4

Sandor only saw Sunsen again after two days. The monk was carrying a big wickerwork cage he had made for the kittens, just like they had planned. He didn't dare to look Sandor in the eyes and blushed.

 

“Sunsen, that's damned fine work, if I've ever seen any. Just what we need for the little ones. They're becoming livelier by the day and crawling around when I don't look. Don't want them to end like their mother.”

 

The monk nodded and put down the cage.

 

“Great,” Sandor said, “and now, we can put the kittens into it whenever I'm not here. Or at night, perhaps.”

He made sure not to mention the night of the fire of the Saltpans and spoke in a light tone – or as light a tone as he could, what with his raspy voice.

 

Sunsen busied himself with caressing Proud Rivers, who took his touches in good faith and tried to play with his fingers.

 

“There's something else I've been thinking about,” Sandor mused.

Finally, his friend looked up, though it was only for a moment before the eyes started to wander.

“You know,” Sandor went on, “I've still got this fleece, but I'm getting fed up with getting pissed and shat on. We should try to teach the babies how to do things properly.”

 

Sunsen scratched his nose and nodded.

Encouraged, Sandor ventured forth: “Maybe we can put a sandbox into the cage. They could find out how to scratch the earth.”

At once, the monk beamed, held up a finger, and hurried out of the room. A few moments later, he came back with a deep tray that contained some sand. He put it down and placed Marby and Taunty onto it. The two kittens sniffed and licked at the sand. Taunty lay down after that and started to play with his golden-coloured paws.

“Fuck me sideways, look!” Sandor explaimed and nudged Sunsen. “Marby's starting to scratch!”

 

Moments later, Sandor thought: _“We're grinning like proud mothers whose children have just said their first words. If anyone told the Lannisters I was behaving like this, they wouldn't believe a single word.”_

For the briefest moment, he asked himself if old Tywin Lannister shouldn't have been given some kittens after his wife's death and what good it could have done for the realm.

Sandor coughed.

_“I wonder how the little bird would react to seeing me and the little ones... But the little bird has flown away and has shat on the Imp's head – like Damsel shits on my fleece. Hope the Imp wasn't able to put a cub into her womb until she left. If only I knew she was still alive.”_

 

Abruptly, Sandor stood up and grunted in pain. Pain was good. He needed it now.

“Sunsen, I'm out. Haven't done my exercises yet. Can you help me to reach the handrail?”

Of course Sunsen could. After a short while, Sandor was in the courtyard and pushing himself to his physical limits. By now, he could stumble around the handrail three times before he had to sit down.

 

When he tired of his monotonous staggering, he took a break and looked around. Brother Corrym was crossing the yard and gave him a curt nod. Sandor nodded back.

And suddenly, he wondered what had happened to himself: when he had fled King's Landing, he had not known where to go, or what to do. He hadn't learned to be his own Dog. Taking care of the ferocious little Stark bitch had been a weird sort of accident. Arya had known what she wanted to do – he had heard it in her so-called prayers. The Hound had been on her list. And the moment had come when he had begged her to kill him. To carry out her plans. But she hadn't complied. So... had the girl realised any of her other plans?

Anyway, he himself, Sandor, had been given a second chance. He had a place now. Even a friend. He was alive and even wanted to be alive. And he had kittens. The only problem was that the duties for his furry little wards would come to an end in a few weeks. Damsel and the others would grow up. Would become independent. It was the course of life.

_“So where does that leave me? I need to think about my future. I need to find another task.”_

 

Just at that moment, Sandor spotted the Elder Brother and Proctor Narbert near the windmill.

_“I've got the feeling that the Elder Brother already has got a plan in his mind, but to what end? Ah, as long as it's not a stupid task, I'll do it. I guess I owe him something for what he's done for me, the pious windbag.”_

After an instant, Sandor thought of how he had mocked Sansa by calling her a “little bird”... and of how this term had changed into some sort of pet name. He now had to ask himself if “pious windbag” was about to turn into a more positive nickname as well.


	20. 4.5

“It's nothing short of a wonder, the way things are developing,” the Elder Brother said after inspecting Sandor's wound – but somehow, Sandor got the impression the man was talking about more than his injury.  
They were in the Elder Brother's personal cave for once, now that Sandor was getting better and could walk a short distance with some help.

 

“Hm. Things HAVE to get better,” Sandor grumbled. “I want to be fit enough to visit Stranger in the stables soon.”

“Driftwood,” the Elder Brother corrected him and held up his index finger. “We've renamed him Driftwood.”

Sandor threw back his head and roared with raucous laughter. He even wiped away a tear of mirth.

“Will you rename me as well? What about calling me 'Maiden'? Would be just as fitting. Harharharhar!”

 

The Elder Brother's shot him dark glances.

“We found you and him at the Trident like we find driftwood on our shores here. And coming to think of a new name for you – how about 'Brother Digger'?”

 

At once, Sandor stiffened, all attention – like a dog who had picked up a scent.

“What do you mean?”

The Elder Brother answered: “You see... You're getting better by the day. So it's time to think of a possible duty for you. It should be something that could enhance your physical fitness. What do you say?”

Sandor lifted his good brow.

“You know I can work. And I can do any sort of reasonable work. But you will not call me 'BROTHER', understood?”

 

There was a ripple of annoyance coming from the Elder Brother.

“Sandor, really, use your brain. I've got a task in mind for you where you will be outside. But – secluded as we live – there are still some visitors. Your size and features are too easy to remember, and you're still sought after for leaving the king's side. Worse than that: I've heard rumours of dark recent deeds being ascribed to you. Don't ask me any details, I don't know much, and they're lies anyway. But whether you like it or not: you'll have to assume the role of a silent brother.”

Sandor glowered at the man and snorted.

The monk continued: “I know you don't want to have anything to do with the Faith, so I won't force you to vow your life to our holy cause, but though you're stubborn like a mule you're not an oaf. You can see the sense in my words, can't you?”

 

Sandor averted his gaze, crossed his arms over his chest, and snorted again.

Then, he asked: “What do you want me to do?”

The Elder Brother breathed in and out.

“Once you're fit enough – and you can leave the kittens alone – I'd like you to become our gravedigger. These days, many bodies are washed ashore. Sometimes, someone dies here, too, but mostly you'd have to deal with those coming in with the tide. What do you say to that idea?”


	21. 4.6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter is unbetaed for the time being. The same may be true for the next chapters. My lovely beta is busy with real life at the moment, and I wish her all the best.

When Brother Corrym helped Sandor back to his babies the first thing he saw was Grumkin pawing at the sand in the sandbox.

  
“Now see who's learning how to shit properly. And you know what? Your brother's burial must have inspired the pious windbag.”

 

Corrym clicked his tongue in disapproval, but Sandor didn't care and continued to talk to Grumkin.

  
“I'll be digging into the ground like you in about a week, give or take a day, he says. Depends on my healing. Isn't that great?”

 

Grumkin seemed to be underwhelmed, given how he squatted down and suddenly made a very concentrated face.

  
Sandor laughed.

  
“You have to shit first and to scratch later, you know? But then again, I shouldn't be surprised. The Imp also loves to leave the stink visible for his father. I only hope you like me better in comparison.”

 

Sandor groaned in exhaustion when he sat down on his bed. Brother Corrym made a sign he'd get something to drink for the two of them.

  
“How about a flagon of sour... goat's milk. Well, not sour. How about goat's milk? The little ones need their food.”

 

Brother Corrym arched his eyebrow and left. Sandor cursed inwardly. Old traditions died hard, and Sandor knew he wasn't fooling the monk.

  
_“I used to drink when I was unnerved, or angry, or exhausted. And I was more and more unnerved once they started to beat the little b–”_

  
He interrupted himself and felt an even greater need for a good swig of wine. Wham! And his fist crashed against the headboard of the bed. Proud Rivers squeaked in indignation.

  
“Oh, stop it,” Sandor growled. “I'd rather want to know if I'll ever get beyond that need for booze, or if I'll always fell the need to dunk myself into a bloody beer barrel as soon things get rough.”

 

At that very moment, Marby decided it was time to puke his first hairball onto the floor. Or rather he wasn't so very good yet at digesting the little portions of minced meat Sandor and Sunsen were providing for them.

  
Sandor cursed again.

  
“Great. Fantastic. Go on like that. Force me to get down on my arse to wipe up your filth.”

 

While Sandor groaned again and lowered himself into a sitting position on the earth, because kneeling was still out of the question, he continued to speak to Marby: “You should have seen me, back in King's Landing. I puked like you more than once. Wonder who cleaned up after me. Well, some servants, obviously. Didn't have a father who'd take care of my dirt.”

  
Marby meowed.

  
“Yes, of course I did have a father when I was your age. But I tell you: he didn't let me sleep on his chest. Got me an incompetent maester to learn my letters and stories about knights, too. Because my granddad had been given a title. It was all that counted for my father. We boys should become knights. We weren't commoners anymore. And when the first son didn't develop the right way, he turned a blind eye and covered up his more and more infamous deeds. He even covered up the reason for my burns, do you know?”

 

Marby meowed again and wanted to be patted behind the ears, so Sandor picked him up.

  
“My father didn't hold me like that, do you know? In his eyes, that wasn't what a nobleman behaved like. And Lord Lannister was father's beacon. Lord Tywin, not Lord Tytos. No wonder they both failed as fathers. I wish grandfather had lived longer so I could have picked up more from him. You know – grandfather was a harsh man, but decent. Dignified, sort of, though he had been born a commoner. No wonder he sacrificed a leg so as to save Lord Tytos – and survived. I wish father had been more like him.”

 

At that moment, witch hooked her little claws into the fabric of Sandor's clothes and tried to climb onto his lap. She fell of and uttered a frustrated sound, then gave it a second try.

  
“You want to know about my sister?” Sandor asked. “No, no. Not a good idea. Do you know what happened to Sunsen's daughter? Feodora didn't fare much better. Only she had a monster of a big brother instead of a Bolton as a tormentor. I'm glad she's beyond suffering.”

  
Unbidden, Sandor's hand balled into a fist.

 

Damsel, who had been playing with Taunty's tail, seemed to sense something tottered over and bumped her head against Sandor's leg.

  
“Eeek!”

  
Sandor's heart unclenched, and his hand relaxed.

 

He picked her up, held her in front of his face, and Damsel bumped her muzzle against his nose. Then, she actually tried to suckle on his crooked pecker.

  
“Hahaha, now look who's hungry. Ah, and listen who's coming. Those steps in the corridor – if I'm not mistaken it's Corrym. With Sunsen on his heels. Looks like you'll get your milk in a moment's time.”

  
“Eeek.”

  
“Good girl. Say hello to your stepfathers.”

 

Minutes later, three men were in the little room, busied themselves with the kittens, and it left Sandor grinning, because he knew he wasn't the only one who adored his furry brood. And he came to think that the fact that he had opened his heart for his little wards didn't make him any weaker. Didn't make him any less of a man. Quite the contrary: he felt more alive than in... he couldn't even remember for how long.

  
_“Some knights would call me a whimp. That bloody Trant, for example. But I ask you, Damsel: who's a healthier man now?”_

  
Damsel uttered a gentle, contented burp after her ration of milk, and Sandor chuckled.

  
“That's the right answer. That's the right attitude.”

  
_“I hope Sansa will be able to react like that one day, wherever she is. After a nice piece of lemon cake. She did like lemon cakes, I remember.”_

 

The next morning, Sandor asked the Elder Brother if they had a lemon tree on the island.

  
“No, but I think there are some such trees in the Vale. Perhaps we could get a fruit and plant a tree after the winter. So you like lemons?”

  
Sandor shrugged.

  
“Under the right circumstances.”


	22. 5.1

**5th week**

It took Sandor some more days, days of intense training – though the exercises were laughable in comparison to what Sandor had been capable of before his injury. Still, it was good he was used to military drill in the open. He growled and cursed because of his leg, hated his limp. Yet, he could see an improvement, too.

  
Oh, Sandor wasn't a patient man, but he was dogged since he had set himself a goal. Thus, he behaved like a hound that wouldn't let go of its game. Round after round he circled the handrail in the yard, hobbling like his dead grandfather had done on his wooden leg.

 

_“He didn't give up. Didn't allow himself to be a cripple. And even on one leg, he was capable of more things than many other men with two legs. He'll be my example,”_ Sandor resolved.

 

He also thought of Tyrion Lannister once while feeding Grumkin – of how the short man had always had to deal with his physical shortcomings.

  
_“The Imp didn't do well along these lines. He flirted with bitterness, arrogance, lechery and egoism at the same time. Oh, and alcohol and hatred. What an unholy combination. Worse even than mine, and I'm a mess to begin with. He'd need a Quiet Isle, too. But he's had the little bird. If he came here, I'd make him even shorter than he already is, Elder Brother around or no.”_

  
Those thoughts caused Sandor's jaws to work, his mouth to twitch, and after the feeding round, he returned to his handrail in the yard although it was cold and rainy outside.

 

Finally, the big moment came: he asked the monks for help, and with their support he managed to stumble across the island. To the stable.

  
Stranger noticed him from afar and even though Sandor's steps were slow and unsteady. Within a moment, the black stallion exploded in his box. He neighed, kicked against the walls, and it sounded as if all four hooves were in the air at the same time.

 

“Calm down, ol' boy, I'm happy to see you, too,” Sandor called from outside.

  
Sunsen and Brother Corrym, who had been half carrying him, were not nearly as joyful as Sandor. Quite the contrary.

  
So Sandor finished the last steps alone, entered the building, approached the box, and Stranger nearly sent him to the floor, so wildly did he push his head against Sandor.

  
“There, there,” Sandor murmured into the steed's mane and wiped his eyes. “What have I heard, boy? The bloody monks tried to geld you? And you broke a man's arm? I say! It's their own fault if they tried to geld a war horse like you. You've got your pride, haven't you? But you've borrowed me quite a bit of trouble, did you know that? You killed a cat, and now, I've got to take care of her furry brood.”

 

The sound Stranger uttered reminded Sandor of a dark snicker.

  
“So that's funny for you? Ah, why am I not surprised? Basking in my embarrassing misery, is that what you are?”

  
Stranger moved his head up and down, then shook himself.

  
Sandor chuckled.

 

“Malicious bastard! I should have turned you into sausages months ago. Now let's see. Hmmmm. You're restless. And for good reasons. You haven't been out for ages, have you?”

  
Stranger stomped his hoof to make a point.

  
“Mmmmh, I can't ride you yet, you know? But I can let you out. Let's strike a deal: you don't run to the Elder Brother's cabbage fields, and I pretend you've broken free when I wanted to brush you so you can run around and work yourself out for a while. What do you say?”

  
Stranger whinnied, and it was as much of an agreement as Sandor needed.

 

When he opened the latch of the box he actually didn't have to pretend Stranger had sent him reeling: the courser stormed out like a bolt of lightening, and within a heart's beat, Sandor landed on his arse.

  
“Ouch!” he called and felt a sharp pain in his bad leg. “You demon of a horse!”

 

Outside the stable, Sandor heard some male squeaks and the sounds of scurrying and hopping feet. Since no painful screams followed the two monks had obviously been quick enough. Sandor was more relieved about it than he'd have ever admit aloud. As it was, he caught his breath and rubbed his leg. It took him a moment until the pain abated.

 

Then, Sunsen stormed into the stable, eyes wandering like mad, and Sandor felt a pang of bad conscience.

  
“I'm all right, Sunsen. You as well?”

  
His friend breathed out in relief when he saw Sandor wasn't badly hurt and nodded to indicate he was fine, too.

  
“That stupid horse overdid it after weeks in the box. And I wasn't strong enough to hold him. Should have known it. Can you help me up?”

 

Of course, the monk was willing to lend Sandor a hand, and Brother Corrym appeared on the spot to support them, too. On their way back, Sandor made a big show of cursing his courser, but on the inside, he was grinning when he saw a black bolt of lightning dash along the shoreline. Stranger would return to the stable in the evening and not cause..., well..., too much trouble after having had his fling.

 

As soon as Sandor returned to his room, the kittens were upon him and demanded his full attention. And their rations of goat's milk. So Sandor forgot about Stranger's “excursion” for a moment – but not for long.

  
The Elder Brother sought him out and wasn't fooled by Sandor's explanations of wanting to brush his horse.

 

“Sandor, the horse was in such a sour mood – he could have hurt or even killed you or our brethren. What you did was irresponsible.”

  
Sandor snorted.

  
“You kept him in the stable for ages and called him 'Driftwood' although he's a war creature like me and needs his exercises. Now tell me: who is the irresponsible one?”

 

They glowered at each other.

  
But then, the Elder Brother smiled.

  
“And you want to tell me you're a minion of the Stranger? You're nursing kittens, and you put your horse's well-being above your own one.”

  
“I like animals better than people,” Sandor rasped.

  
The Elder Brother's eyes sparkled.

  
“Says the man who has cuddled Brother Sunsen.”

  
Sandor cursed, focused on Taunty in his hands, and knew when a fight was lost.

 

_“That bloody pious windbag. When it comes to seeing something good in me he's as bad as the little bird. And just as clueless. What does he know about the atrocities I've committed?”_

  
He remembered the little Stark bitch's butcher boy and all the others he had killed. He had always striven for a quick ending, but dead was dead. As if hand-feeding a few kittens could change that!

 

At that moment, Witch hooked her claws into his feet and distracted him. At the same time, the Elder Brother changed the topic.

  
“Your little trip to the stable shows me that you're getting fitter. At the end of the week, you can try to start digging graves. Perhaps it's a bit early, but I won't be able to keep you from working anyway, by the look of it. I'll tell Dog to keep you company.”

  
Sandor's heart beat faster. He remembered his horse's delirious bliss, the sense of freedom, down at the beach, and felt the same.

 

Then, Damsel's wet nose touched his ankle, and he picked up his furry baby.

  
To the Elder Brother he said: “Until then I'll keep company with this one here.”

  
The monk smiled...  
… and he said in a strangely mild voice: “I've got a feeling you won't be here forever, Sandor. The Father tells me he'll be winning you over to his cause.”

 

Sandor froze.

  
“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. And don't try to put such thoughts into my head. I'll never be a father. Sure, I might sire a bastard child on a whore, but I'd never know. Nor would the harlot be able to tell who put the snotty brat into her belly. And no other woman would ever lie down willingly with an ugly, scarred old dog like me.”

  
Damsel licked his hand.

  
The Elder Brother didn't answer with words; he just smiled, and Sandor felt the urgent need to bash in the man's teeth. Since that option was out of the question, he simply rubbed Damsel's head with his nose and enjoyed her happy purrs.


	23. 5.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, it's even definite that this story is referring to book canon.

Over the next days, Sandor was under the impression that the Elder Brother was waiting for something. Or someone. It could be seen in the man's somewhat tense posture and the way he craned his neck outside from time to time to look towards the main land. Yet, since the monk wasn't inclined to inform him of his thoughts, Sandor shrugged his shoulders and didn't bother himself with what was going on.

 

Instead, he trained a lot, despite a phase of bad weather, and he passed time with Stranger on a more regular basis. Although it was still pretty painful, Sandor was now able to make it to the stable if he used a walking cane – and if he paused before he returned to the cloister. Stranger was still more than a little grumpy for having to stay inside so often, but with Sandor's help, the courser got more exercise and was only likely to bite off another man's hand about half of the time.

 

And there was something more. Sandor attended mass. It was not for his own one, but for Sunsen's sake. Brother Narbert's sermon was a shitload of religious gibberish, just like Sandor had anticipated. But true to the Elder Brother's word, Sandor's friend had a beautiful singing voice.

  
_“Why do I always end up in the presence of little birds and their songs and their bloody bigotry?”_ Sandor thought. He allowed himself a little sigh.

 

After mass, he clapped Sunsen on the back.

  
“You know how to chirp, I must give you that,” Sandor growled, and the monk blushed like a maid on her wedding night.

  
_“At least I'm not the only one who's not good at accepting friendly words,”_ Sandor couldn't help but think.

  
He said: “I can just sing 'The Bear and the Maiden fair' and such tavern songs in the presence of the lions of Lannister – because felines are used to caterwauling.”

  
As a response, Sunsen nearly suffocated from swallowing his own spit, so Sandor clapped him on the back once more.

 

When Sandor returned to his room, he felt the queerest itch on the inside, and while feeding his brood, he suddenly found himself singing 'The Bandy-legged Harlot from Pentos'. Proud Rivers looked at him scornfully and demanded his focus on the pipette.

  
“Why don't I just leave you to your pot with minced meat?” Sandor grumbled.

  
Grumkin meowed. It sounded greedy.

  
“No, I wasn't talking about milk _and_ meat, I was talking about meat as your sole food. You're slowly getting old enough.”

 

Witch burped.

  
Sandor chuckled.

  
“You look a bit inebriated from all that good milk, do you know that?”

  
Taunty was already one step further after the feeding round: he half played with his golden paws and half tried to wash his face with them.

  
“Now look at that, you arrogant little bastard. Trying to look good for the ladies? Or should I say: especially one lady?”

 

The last ones Sandor fed were Marby and Damsel. Afterwards, the two rusty-coloured little ones huddled together, yawned, and fell asleep without further ado.

  
Sandor arched an eyebrow.

  
“Do birds of a feather flock together? Or cats of a fur share a purr? Never thought about it that way, but Marby is a decent one.”

  
Sandor sighed and wondered once more what had become of Sansa Stark.

 

Finally, it was the end of the week, Sandor felt strong enough to totter off to dig a first grave.

  
Before he left the yard of the cloister, the Elder Brother said: “We've had no dead person washed ashore for once, but you're not fit yet. So rather take your time and make some breaks. If necessary, you can go on tomorrow.”

 

So off Sandor limped while using his shovel as a walking cane. He realised soon how limited his abilities and his strength still were. So he sat down on a big rock, looked at his scanty progress, cursed, and produced a cloth with a slice of bread and a few shards of cheese.

 

“Hsssss!”

  
Sandor spun around to face any possible danger and grasped his shovel. To his relief, there was no snake anywhere near – but instead, there was a big, lean old tomcat with frayed ears and a more extremely patchy golden fur that was standing on end at the neck. The animal was spitting, its tail was twitching, and it was lusting after Sandor's food, no doubt about that.

 

Sandor blinked.

  
“Are you the sire of my little wards? And you want this here? But let me tell you: this is cheese. No gold ingots. Ah, anyway.”

  
He threw a morsel towards the tomcat, who dashed towards the cheese, left a scratch on Sandor's good leg, and dashed away with the food trophy in its muzzle.

  
“Ouch! You greedy demon! What a bloody epitome of gratitude.”

  
Sandor saw the nervous twitch of a half hairless golden tail on a rock under a bush.

  
So Sandor called out to the animal: “On my word, I've got no clue what mother cat must have seen in you. Must have been a lack of choice. I'll name you Sideburns.”

  
One last hiss, and the tomcat disappeared.

 

Sandor shook his head at the creature.

  
“Really, what do I care? Off to work again for a second round. At least for half an hour, that'll have to be enough for today.”

 

When Sandor returned to the cloister, he moaned with every step he took and collapsed in the yard. Within minutes, the monks carried him inside, and the Elder Brother arrived, hands on his hips like a matron.  
“What did I tell you, Sandor? Don't overdo it! By the Seven, you're as stubborn as a mule, and brainless on top. The Father must have sent you as our personal ordeal.”

  
Despite the pain, Sandor managed a lopsided smirk.

  
“You want to atone with my help? In that case: always at your service.”


	24. 6.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Oloi5!!! I hope you'll enjoy this update.

**6th week**

 

At the beginning of the sixth week with his meowing little fur puffs, Sandor had to admit that his babies had turned into toddlers - and like toddlers, they were curious like fuck. By now, they all knew how to climb over the rim of the wickerwork construction, so he covered it with a net when he was outside with Stranger, or digging graves.

From the remaining litter, Grumkin had turned into the chubbiest fellow; he was always standing with his paws in the food bowl with minced meat. Afterwards, he used to be dirty everywhere: face, belly, legs, even the tip of his short little tail. And even though he dug into this new sort of food with a healthy appetite, he still cried for his milk as if he were starving.

"Greedy golden-haired chap," Sandor rumbled on a regular basis... and yet gave Grumkin a droplet more with the pipette.

_"This is embarrassing. When I commanded my units in a military campaign I was a strict leader. The little ones are making me far too soft!"_

 

 

Proud Rivers was the first one to truly master the usage of the sandbox, and it looked as if she wanted to inspire the others to handle things in an adequate way, too. Damsel took Proud Rivers as a good example, but Witch rather waited for Taunty to clean up after her.

 

Then, Brother Corrym entered Sandor's room with a huge grin on in face, a sparkle in his eyes, and a wooden box, which he was firmly holding in his hands.

"If I didn't know you for a pious one, I'd believe you to be up to some sort of mischief," Sandor commented.

Brother Corrym couldn't suppress a chuckle, vow of silence or not. Next, he approached the wickerwork construction, opened the box, grabbed into it... and held living mouse in his fingers.

"Holy fucking shit, you're not -"

That was all Sandor managed to say before the monk threw the mouse amidst the group of little furries.

 

The wild spectacle, accompanied by cascades of "maows" and "meeeeeps!!", that unfolded right afterwards, was something Sandor was sure he'd never forget until the rest of his days. Half an hour later, it was hard to decide who was more exhausted - the petrified mouse or the kittens.

Sandor said to Brother Corrym: "See, they're still too young to actually kill -"

That was the exact moment, when Witch got hold of the mouse for the last time and somehow managed to bite it and to end the rodent's life.

"Erm, correcting myself," Sandor grumbled, and the monk at his side was having the fun of his life. "Ah, at least I'm not surprised by who has turned out to be the first mouse slayer."

 

Behind them, the door opened.

"Here you are, brother!" they heard the nagging voice of Proctor Narbert.

Corrym, whose back was towards the other monk, screwed his eyes heavenwards. Sandor kept a deadpan expression, but he only managed to do that because of his long experience as the Lannister family's shield. On the inside, he was roaring with raucous laughter.

Aloud, he said to Narbert: "You've missed quite a spectacle. Look! Witch has hunted down her first mouse."

 

The proctor knitted his brows and curled his lips.

"Mice are vermin! Remove that dirt at once."

"Oh - too late," Sandor replied in a complacent tone. "Grumkin is faster. See."

"Bah! Disgusting," Brother Narbert said and looked at Corrym. "And you, brother. We need you at the brewery, and you know it well. That's of course no place for  _you_ , Sandor."

 

White hot anger balled in Sandor's stomach on hearing the nasty allusion towards his alcohol problem. Strangely enough though,  he didn't explode for once. Instead, he thought of Arya Stark and the way she would have reacted to such a humiliating situation.

In a saccharine voice - or as saccharine as it could be in Sandor's case - he said to Proctor Narbert: "By the way, the kittens are more agile by the day. Very soon, they'll be exploring the cloister. If I were you, I'd control my food from now on and make sure that there isn't a half-eaten dead mouse in your bowl."

 

Narbert turned a shade of whitish green that reminded Sandor of gull shit. It was most entertaining to behold.

The pious man jangled: "You're a shame and a curse for this island."

With those words, he left.

Corrym followed the proctor - but on his way out, he winked at Sandor and then pretended to have something in his eye.

 

When the men were gone, Sandor took up little Witch and pudgy Grumkin and praised them for the orchestration of the mouse disposal.


	25. 6.2

After the experiment with the mouse, Sandor made sure his little ones got ample opportunities to play and to explore the world around them. As often as possible he allowed them to leave the wickerwork construction.

He remembered how he had bound a piece of yarn to a stick and had entertained a kitten back at his father's keep – until Gregor had killed the animal. But Sandor pushed the sad memory aside, applied his knowledge to the litter, and offered his babies the same kind of toy. His success was absolute. Especially Taunty and Marby never ceased to chase after the yarn, all the while uttering the happiest of mewls.

No wonder the blasted monks were all mesmerised and would drop in to watch the game at all times.

 

Once, one of Sandor's wards who had not truly mastered the sandbox technique yet left a little heap on the doorstep when he didn't look. It caused him to grin when it was Proctor Narbert in search of Brother Sunsen who stepped into the kitten's remains. To make things perfect, the sour, nagging monk revealed he was very capable of swearing. Impish delight notwithstanding, Sandor found it prudent to put up a second sandbox near the door to avoid any further chagrin.

 

Grumkin was still the one who always needed to be washed after having eaten from the food bowl. Whenever Sandor cleaned him, the little feline snarled like a proper mini-version of a lion.

“I should rename you,” Sandor told the growing tuft of fur. “'Fatty' would be adequate, don't you think?”

“Fchhhhh!” was the revealing answer.

Sandor grinned.

“Starting to sound more and more like your sire, do you know that?”

“MAAOOOWWFCHHHH!”

“Ungrateful little devil. Sure, you may have lost your mother, but you're getting your arse wiped, and you're getting enough food to not have to fear starvation. That's more than many poxy peasants can say about themselves, you know?”

Grumkin snarled and farted at the same time.

Sandor wrinkled his nose.

“Trying to be acid and witty again? Bah! Honestly – if anyone ever manages to preserve this stink he'd have a weapon potent enough to bring down the Twins.”

Sandor put Grumkin onto the grownd, and the chubby kitten darted away, shaking out his wet legs every few steps in abject indignation.

 

At least the other kittens were slowly becoming cleanlier. Sure, Sandor still had to place Witch into the sandbox after each milk-feeding-and-belly-rub round; but Damsel kept watching and mimicking Proud Rivers so as to learn how to clean herself properly.

“Turning into a real lady, aren't you?” Sandor asked her. “Ah, then again no less was to be expected.”

“Meeps.”

 

Damsel kept asking for the milk pipette far more often than the others, who were slowly but surely turning to solid food.

“If I wasn't sure I'm too disgusting company for a gentle heart like you I'd believe you to want to spend more time with me.”

In answer to that, Damsel bumped her head against Sandor's thigh and sniffled and licked on his skin.

Sandor smiled and rubbed her velvety chin with his index finger. Damsel purred happily, and Sandor was close to purring himself.

 

#####

 

Stranger, by contrast, was in the foulest possible mood. He didn't get enough exercise. The bad autumn weather only added to the unrest.

The worst moment came one morning when Sandor heard monks scream and saw the run to and fro in the yard. Sandor scratched his head, put down the spade, which he'd shouldered for the graveyard, and made for the stable where the hullabaloo seemed to originate.

 

Stranger was neighing and stomping in his box, throwing his head from side to side, and one could see the white of his eyes. At the same time, Elder Brother was tending to a moaning monk on the ground in front of the box.

“ _What the fuck...?”_ Sandor thought.

“This monstruous beast has broken our brother's arm,” Proctor Narbert told him, and from the glint in the man's eye Sandor knew the monk was seriously pondering to turn Stranger into sausages.

 

Sandor balled his fists.

He growled: “He is  _my_ bloody horse, understood? Nobody will touch him.”

“Pah, he was driftwood like you, and we found you both and kept you both, for whatever reason,” Proctor Narbert groused. “And I can tell you that from now on nobody will try to come close to that beast anymore.”

“What. Did. You. Try. To. Do. To. Him?” Sandor rasped, a vein swelling on his forehead.

The proctor shrugged.

“Nothing that doesn't happen to other horses, too. We've tried to geld him to make him calmer.”

 

How Sandor managed not to tear those monks all to shreds in that moment was a mystery he'd likely never solve.

“Perhaps we should geld you then, too,” he snarled. “I've heard that it happens a lot to men in Essos, and as a monk you don't need your bloody balls anymore.”

 

Sandor's retort nearly caused the proctor to froth in anger, but just at that instant, the Elder Brother chastised them and asked for help. Minutes later, the monks were carrying their hurt brother back into the cloister. Sandor dawdled behind, and not without spending a long moment of trying to calm down his horse.

“Honestly, those lackwits didn't deserve any better,” he murmured.

Stranger uttered a sound that nearly sounded like a harrumph.

 


	26. 7.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I'm back with this little story.  
> Please note that I'm referring to book canon here.*

At the beginning of the seventh week with his kittens, Sandor reduced the milk rations bit by bit and offered his little ones more solid food instead. They'd only get a pipette of milk in the morning and another one in the evening, and that was that.

Of course, fatty Grumkin tried to threaten Sandor with snarls and little dung bombs everywhere in the room, whereas Damsel just looked at her foster father with sad, blue eyes. Sandor cursed at the former one and growled at the latter one: "You're a fucking cat - shouldn't your eyes be turning green by now?"

 

Stranger continued to be difficult, but that was nothing new. Since the failed gelding attempt the monks often left the feeding of his horse to Sandor.

"Just the way it should be, old boy," Sandor muttered.

Stranger tried to bite him in response, and Sandor smacked his flank lightly - it was nowhere near as forcefully as he had seen other men do it to their own horses.

 

When it came to developments in the cloister, Sandor knew little about most monks. Still, one evening, he noticed an empty space during supper.

"Who's missing?" he asked the Elder Brother later on.

The leader of the island turned very serious then.

"It's Brother Clement. He's fallen ill, and I do have a feeling he'll encounter the Stranger soon."

"Ah," Sandor answered. "I see. And your concoctions don't work? I mean - they even helped a bastard like me."

The Elder Brother sighed.

"Sadly, I can do nothing if it's the Gods' will. Remember your dead kitten? You did everything for it, too, and yet..."

The monk spreak his hands in a gesture that signalled helplessness.

Sandor curled his lip until the burned corner of his mouth twitched.

 

As it was, he had to bury quite a few bodies these days. There was a handful of dead people that was washed ashore within days. So Sandor got a good chance at exercising his muscles and his agility. He still got tired far sooner than he liked it, but at the same time, there were ample signs he was making progress. He needed his improving strength when Brother Clement passed away and he had to dig a grave for the monk, too.

 

So Sandor hobbled to the lichyard and set to work. As it was a cool autumn day, he put a cowl in front of his face. What he didn't know at this point was that he'd appreciate having covered his face sooner than he would have thought.

He was just about to take off the cowl when he was starting to sweat; but at that moment, his old warrior instincts caused the hair on his arms to stand on end, for whatever reason.

He looked up and saw a group of people in the distance. Visitors, apparently. Arriving from.. the Mudflats? Five men, if Sandor wasn't sorely mistaken. He didn't recognise them, but he realised that only two persons were monks. The others were wearing armour. And what was that furry big thing over there? A dog?

"Fuck," Sandor rasped under his breath, averted his face, and concentrated on the task at hand. On instinct, he knew that this was what the Elder Brother had been waiting for all the time.

 

He noticed Stranger throw a tantrum in his stable when he heard the foreigners pass the building. Next, he could discern Proctor Narbert's nasal voice. Sandor's jaws worked. He continued to appear utterly busy; at the same time, he strained himself to see as much as he could from the corner of his eyes. As a former royal shield, he was quite good at that. And then, his mouth opened beneath the cowl for the blink of an eye.

_"Holy shit, what's THAT!? Why... looks like a female ox in armour! And an ugly female ox at that. Never seen such a giant of a woman before. Why - she's nearly as tall as me! Fuck, with our looks we'd be the such a creepy pairing we could make the Others shit themselves in fear."_

 

 

With vigour, Sandor stepped onto his spade and flung the loose earth out of the grave.

"Brother Digger, will you be careful? You've nearly covered us in dirt."

 _"Ah, DEAREST proctor, I'm SO sorry,"_ Sandor thought, but kept silent. _"I'm sorry I MISSED you."_

Just at that moment, the big dog appeared at the edge of the grave and looked down at Sandor, tongue lolling out. Sandor's heartbeat accelerated, and he scratched the animal's ear - a welcome opportunity to avoid any further contact with the nearby humans.

 

The group of visitors passed him, and Sandor perked up his ears. Those people were looking for someone. Of course they were. Every single hair on their heads revealed as much, and Sandor knew he needed more information. After all, there was a prize on his own head for having turned tail and run from that little shit Joffrey.

Sandor noticed his hands were trembling.

 _"I'm tired from all the digging again. Bah, I need more training,"_ he told himself. _"And I should talk to the Elder Brother in a safe moment. As soon as possible."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * That's the reason why a certain someone doesn't recognise Sandor and vice versa.


	27. 7.2

As soon as the coast was clear, Sandor hobbled back to the cloister and to his room. When he arrived, he found out Damsel had fallen into a dung bomb someone else had placed into a corner of the room. Sure enough, there was no imminent danger for the kitten, but Damsel's fur was all brown. So if not for her blue eyes one could barely recognise her. She was quiet, subdued, and Sandor knew she wasn't feeling well, even if she wasn't protesting.

With a sigh, he took up his little ward and carried her to the washstand. When he started to clean damsel from her head to the tip of her tail, she spread her toes, but unlike other cats, she didn't fight the water.  
Not ungently, Sandor growled into her ears, "Always such a lady."

A few minutes later, Brother Corrym stuck his head in the door.  
"Already been expecting I wouldn't stay at the lichyard, am I right?" Sandor said.  
The monk nodded and gestured.  
Sandor understood.  
"The guests are with the Elder Brother? And I guess they'll stay for a night."  
Brother Corrym nodded, and Sandor cursed. Proud Rivers looked up at him as if she meant to chastise him for his wording, but Sandor didn't care. He was a man on the run, and the presence of visitors was dangerous for him. At least he was sure the Elder Brother wouldn't give him away.  
_"He still needs me for the kittens, at least for another week. And he doesn't want to expose his brethren to Stranger,"_ he thought. Besides... why heal a man and then reveal his identity so it would get the patient killed?

Brother Corrym came over, wrinkled his nose at the dung bomb, and shook his head. Sandor put clean Damsel down again. He'd have to clean the room as soon as possible, of course.

The next moment, the door, which was ajar, opened wider, and the big dog from earlier on came in, cocked his head, and lifted his ears. At once, the kittens reacted. Witch, Taunty and Proud Rivers hissed. Grumkin produced yet another dung bomb. Marby just stood there and watched what was going on. In contrast to this, Damsel cocked her head, too, as if she was trying to mimick the dog. Then, she moved closer, shyly but without stopping once.

Sandor was close to a heart attack. Old instincts caused him to try to grab a non-existent sword at his belt. In front of his inner eyes he could already see the big animal wreak deadly havoc among his little furries.

The dog cocked his head from side to side as if he was exposed to a riddle and growled. Clueless Damsel obviously thought the dog to be purring, assumed it to be a friend, tottered over to the dog before Sandor could pick her up, and rubbed herself against a giant furry paw.

The dog's ears moved up again. He growled and uttered an angry bark as well, but at the same time, his tail wagged timidly. Then, the dog gazed at the men in the room, back at the kitten at his feet, looked away, dipped his head next and licked the kitten once. Right afterwards, he growled again, farted, turned tail, and took to his heels. Damsel mewled after the big animal.

Brother Corrym and Sandor both watched the scene with their mouths agape. Sandor was the first one to come back to his senses. The singed corner of his lips twitched. He coughed, felt his ears glow, and rubbed the nape of his neck.  
"Looks like the little ones are safe now. Errr... Corrym, do tell me when the Elder Brother can spare a private moment for me."

The monk blinked and nodded. He also gestured and indicated they'd meet again later. He was likely referring to dinner.

When Brother Corrym was gone, Sandor picked Damsel up again and looked her in the eyes.  
"You're a weird one, you know?"  
"Eeeek."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Oloi5, I just noticed I totally missed your birthday last month. I'M SO SORRY!!


	28. DRAWING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday today - and instead of receiving presents I'm giving you one, because this fandom is wonderful.

Family photo with exhausted Sandor and his kittens.

And here's little Handy Stark, who is there in the original, but the programme cut him off on the right side of the picture. Oddly fitting, though sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps you may want to guess at who is who? :-)


	29. 7.3.

A little later, Brother Sunsen came over, head wiggling.

"Are you here to fetch me see the Elder Brother?" Sandor asked.

The monk nodded.

"All right," Sandor grumbled. "Can you keep an eye on the little ones?"

He placed Damsel and Marby into his friend's arms. Sunsen smiled at once and nodded even more. Sandor grinned inwardly at the man's enthusiasm.

 

He was far more serious, though, when he arrived at the Elder Brother's domicile.

"Ah, there you are, Sandor," the man greeted him. "We need to talk about our guests."

"Yes, absolutely," Sandor agreed.

The Elder Brother motioned him over to a stool. Sandor sat down and massaged his bad leg.

 

Next, the monk began, "The visitors you've already seen... One is a Brother, as you'll have noticed. The others..."

"What about the huge woman?"

The Elder Brother nodded as if to compliment him on coming to the heart of the matter at once.

"The woman is Lady Brienne of Tarth."

Sandor blinked.

"The heiress?"

"The very same. Her companions are a knight called Ser Hyle Hunt and a squire named Podrick Payne."

Sandor's eyebrows rose - or at least the unburnt one did.

"The Imp's squire? What the fuck is he doing here?"

 

The Elder Brother scratched with he nail of his thumb across his lip, deep in thought.

"Sansa Stark," he said.

It was as if a bolt of lightening exploded in Sandor's chest. He stiffened.

"What are you talking about, monk? Explain yourself!" he rasped.

The Elder Brother smiled at him in the most annoying way.

"The trio is here, because they're searching for Sansa Stark. As well as her sister Arya."

"And why would they do such a thing? Why come here? It's not as if the Quiet Isle was a bloody orphanage."

 

The monk chuckled.

"No, certainly not. But they seemed to suspect I might know something. We're very secluded here, yes, but at times, the world comes to our doorstep. Like you did, Sandor."

"Pah!" Sandor growled. "You dragged me here when I was dying. I'd rather have hacked off my leg than to spend my time among religious windbags."

"Can't you apply a measure of decency in your language and attitude by now?" the Elder Brother chided him in a gentle, but serious voice.

Sandor looked to the side. Suddenly, he stiffened a second time.

FUCK! Why had he not realised sooner - ?

"What do you know about the Stark girls? What did you tell the Tarth woman and her cronies?"

 

The Elder Brother's eyes were bright.

"Ah, I don't know much. In your delirium, you told me you traveled with Lady Arya, so I know she was still alive when she left you weeks and weeks ago. There's no solid information of her recent whereabouts I could give Lady Brienne. I only told her the Hound was dead when she started to show an initial interest in a certain gravedigger."

Sandor shuddered.

"I guess I have to thank you," he growled.

The Elder Brother shrugged.

Then, he continued, "Nor did I tell them anything about Lord Baelish's natural daughter."

 

Sandor blinked.

"The Mockingbird? What about that bugger? And a natural daughter? I've never heard of such a thing."

The Elder Brother shrugged.

"Rumours have it that the girl has got dark brown hair and a gentle soul."

Sandor harrumphed.

"You'd have to combine Arya Stark's looks and Sansa Stark's character then. The description doesn't fit to eith -"

He stopped dead. Possibilities and searing explanations popped up in his head like wildfire.

"Little bird," he whispered.

 

He heard the Elder Brother say in a conversational tone, "Yes, right, I thought the description wouldn't fit, so I didn't tell Lady Brienne anything about my initial speculations. And I don't think they need to accompany me to the Vale where Lord Baelish is residing these days."

Sandor perked up his ears, and his heart palpitated.

"You're going to travel to the Vale?"

The Elder Brother nodded.

"In a short while. I've been summoned. My healing expertise is needed for young Lord Arryn, who is said to be a sickly boy."

After a pause, the monk added a question.

"How fit are you these days, Sandor?"


	30. 8.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! In the 8th week! Circling in for the ending of the story.

Brienne of Tarth and her cronies left without recognising who the gravedigger was. Still, Sandor didn't sleep well these days. Instead, he tossed and turned in his bed during long, dark hours at night.

 

Sansa! Sansa Stark! No, Sansa fucking Lannister. Or Alayne, Littlefinger's alleged bastard. He'd see her! And soon!

Only...

 

Shocking as it was for him, Sandor was hesitant about leaving the Quiet Isle. To want to stay around pious windbags - really, was he getting mad?

No. No, he wasn't. The point was that this place had become a sanctuary for him, just like it had done for the other men. He had fround friends here, even if they were bloody monks. The Quiet Isle was the first place he knew that came close to something like a home. Sandor had never felt at home before, least of all in his father's keep. And he was past the prime of his youth - he did feel it in his bones he wanted to settle down for good.

 

Another point was that he hadn't drunk any alcohol these last weeks. It had become easier and easier to live without Dornish red - but could he do without stupors in the outside world? Around drinking knights and arrogant, unnerving noblemen?

Besides, Sandor was still a man on the run since he had turned tail and fled from the battlefield at the Blackwater. To make things worse, he had treated Sansa in a most disgusting way in the Red Keep before he had left her behind as well.

 _"And since then, she's been in the Imps clutches,"_ Sandor thought. _"Only the bloody fire demons from the seven hells know  what she's had to endure, because I was such a shit. Only... wouldn't I've been worse? I wanted her. Wanted her even then. Oh, I wouldn't have been any better, little bird, would I?"_

 

Only then did Sandor brace himself to face the next crucial point.

_"What about my little ones?"_

His meowing babies had turned into happy youngsters - but he was still responsible for them. He couldn't leave them alone. He could NOT. If he left, he likely would never come back. This was cruel Westeros after all.

 

A fluffy head poked his leg.

"EEEK!"

"Damsel," Sandor whispered.

His heart constricted. Fuck, he had become the worst sissy. Ah, too late, too late. He had to admit it: he loved his furry wards. And his kittens loved him back, inconceivable as it was. So perhaps he hadn't fucked up everything for once, had he?

Sandor breathed in and out, in and out. His heart was beating too fast and his bad leg burned. Was there a weather change ahead?

 

The next morning brought low temperatures and snow. Sandor pondered how the people had surely left the Eyrie by now to seek shelter in the winter quarters of the Vale.

"Winter isn't coming, Sansa," he murmured. "It's here. And it'll be a long winter."

 

He looked at the ground to find his shoes under the bed. In one of them was a dung bomb, surely from Grumkin. Sandor cursed. Proud Rivers uttered a hiss to berate him for his fruity language.

Suddenly, there was a muffled meow from the cell door. Sandor turned his head to find out what was the matter.

His jaw sagged.

Damsel stood there, in the doorframe. She was utterly delighted. And she had a little bird in her muzzle.

 _"Seven hells!"_ Sandor thought. _"Why... she's eight weeks old now. She's fucking growing up. Becoming independent. And the others as well."_

He mused how mother cat would surely have started to alienate herself from her litter these days, had she been alive. It was the way of Mother Nature. It had to be.

 

"Good girl," Sandor lauded Damsel for her game, and Witch sauntered over to try to snatch the bird from the other kitten. To Sandor's surprise, Taunty sided with Damsel, not with Witch - something he'd never done before.

"Times are changing," Sandor whispered hoarsely. "And I must go find my own little bird. Only I won't hunt her down. I'll save her."

 

When Sunsen came into the room later, Sandor imploded and started to cry until his massive shoulders trembled.

"You'll be a good friend?" he blubbered. "You'll take care of the kittens when I'm gone, won't you?"

The monk hugged him and clapped him on the back.

"I...you see... I've saved these kittens, you know... And now, I must save someone else."

Sunsen looked at him, and for once, his eyes didn't wander. He even smiled sadly, and Sandor knew his friend understood.

It helped Sandor to accept the inevitable. He was doing the right thing. - Nobody had ever said that doing the right thing wasn't painful.


End file.
